Grinch

This week has been ridiculously difficult. I’m working 10 hour days in the newsroom, getting home at 10:30 or 11 at night, in bed after midnight, sleeping maybe three consecutive hours — if I’m lucky — but mostly, I’m tossing and turning and peeing and then it’s back up at six or so because Serge goes to work early in the morning.

I have become the woman who shouts at no one: CAN I JUST GET ONE DAMN MINUTE TO MYSELF?!

I loiter in the restroom stall at work because it feels luxurious to be alone in there.

I’m an executive producer at a news station in Salt Lake City. This week we’ve been working on one of the biggest stories of my news career — the last chapter in the kidnapping of Elizabeth Smart. I was here in 2002 when she was kidnapped and we figured she was certainly dead. I was here in 2003 when she was found, but we didn’t believe it until we saw her emerge from the police station after being reunited with her family. Now, after several years of working in newsrooms in New York City, I’m back in a Salt Lake City newsroom covering the trial of her kidnapper.

Working on stories like this that involve intense amounts of coordination with reporters, photographers, producers, live trucks, satellites and, of course, writing, is exhausting. Add the fact that I’m pushing eight months pregnant, fat as hell, uncomfortable, waterlogged, sleep deprived and Christmas is here and oh my God all the crap that entails…

I don’t really know the point of this rambling missive, y’all. I guess I just want to hear from other pregnant women who work full-time in high stress environments. How do you cope without flipping out? I’ll admit, I’ve already flipped out. Shattered glass may have been involved and it may or may not have been broken on purpose.

After spending the morning with Violet, I’m in demand at work all day long. Choreographing reporters, photographers, copy-editing newscasts… my phone never stops ringing and most days I can’t even escape to lunch.  I scarf down a stupid Lean Cuisine pizza at my desk. So when Serge calls from home in between the madness and I’m short with him, he feels bad, but it’s hard to converse jovially when you’ve just had your heart in your throat wondering if the lead package of the newscast will make air and you’re hovering over the editor finishing the piece yelling at him to send, send, SEND IT TO THE SYSTEM THE STORY AIRS IN 30 SECONDS FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!

Boo hoo, I know. It could be so much worse. I could have hemorrhoids. I am in the third trimester.

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