A friend was laughing about a pregnant friend the other day. She was throwing her a baby shower, only her preggo friend had definite ideas about how things should go. She didn’t want any cheesy games. She wanted only chicken and vegetable foods, no beef; fruit juice, no soda; and lemon cake, not chocolate. And could the party please start at 11:00 a.m.?
She was a Pregzilla. And although it’s been awhile since I was one, I can relate.
For the record, I was a Pregzilla Lite. You can ask my husband, even. I truly terrorized him once—I needed a tuna melt at 2:30 a.m.—and had just a couple of memorable meltdowns. Once, he was driving and made some sudden turn that made me screech “YOU’RE GONNA KILL US ALL!” and the other, after a two-hour shopping spree at Babies ‘R Us when I was overwhelmed by impending motherhood. I sat on our sofa, surrounded by boxes of diaper wipes and washcloths and baby clothes, despondent. “I’m not re-re-ready for this,” I sobbed. “You don’t have a choice,” Dave sanely pointed out, at which point I got hysterical.
My friend Erin still speaks of an egg-cident when she was pregnant with her first. As she recalls it, “I was trying to peel a hardboiled egg, starving, and determined to eat something healthier than my usual giant everything bagel with cream cheese. I stood over the sink and could only manage to chip away tiny pieces of shell, but chunks of egg white were coming off too. I couldn’t seem to get under that layer of plastic-wrap-like stuff that allows you to calmly and cooly take the whole shell off in one motion and I got frustrated. Really frustrated. When I’d whittled the egg down to practically all yolk, my husband came in and said something stupid (I don’t remember what it was, just that it annoyed me) and next thing I knew, I’d thrown the egg at the wall. It smashed into an oblivion of shell, yolk and plastic wrap and I felt like a crazy person. He was so scared he cleaned it up for me. This is one of the many reasons we are likely not having more children.”
Hunger and overactive hormones are definitely a deadly combination. I was once waiting on some endless lunchtime line at a sandwich shop when I sidled my eight-months-pregnant-body up to the counter, glared into the eyes of the young guy taking orders and said, “I am going to have this baby right now if I don’t get some food immediately.” I got my turkey-and-muenster asap, because I’m pretty sure he believed me.
Pregzillas may also rear their heads when their nests are imperiled, as happened to my friend Wendy when she was carrying heir youngest daughter. For months, she’d been telling her husband that she wanted to buy a dresser to match a child crib and chest of drawers they already owned. “For my birthday, he handed over this gigantic box with a big, happy grin on his face,” she recalls. Inside: $300 worth of fancy-(elastic)-pants maternity clothes. “I got so upset,” she continues. “I was six weeks away from having the baby, and I didn’t want any more big clothes! I wanted the dresser! I was totally yelling, ‘Why didn’t you just get me the dresser?’ Then I cried. When he took me out for a birthday dinner that night, I didn’t let it drop. I still can’t believe how nuts I got about it.”
So, can you relate? Got any Pregzilla stories of your own to share?
Photo source: Flickr/kelsey_lovefusion
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