Balancing Act
Having arrived safely into the third trimester, I realize that my giddy glow is rapidly transforming into a grimace. Coming off of two miscarriages, I’m reluctant to delve into the general “waaah” that many pregnant women feel is their right as the weeks count down, but I also realize that I shouldn’t manufacture a cheery disposition for the sake of proving my gratitude. I’m also learning there is a fine balance between being real and being rude. For instance, merging over into a lane when I clearly saw a car (plenty far behind me) flashing her brights at me to tell me she didn’t think my merge was timely, could be interpreted as rude. Fussing at the wait staff for wanting to squeeze a booster seat between Joe and I, where we sat on a booth bench built for one-and-a-half adults (after they had said a highchair would be okay), might have been rude. I’ve been known to occasionally “teach lessons” to exceedingly impatient drivers on the road, but usually I am very gracious to wait staff and strangers in general, even if I do sprinkle my kindness with a little raw humor.
I was recently sharing with Joe how since we have Alzheimer’s on both sides of the family, most likely we will wake up in bed together at the age of 82 and yell, “Who are you!?!” Then we will flick on our i-Geriatrics which will tell us our names and that we’ve been married since 23, and that we really should have bought that King-size bed back in 2004, since no doubt insomnia from a crowded combination of twelve feet of height has been pushing us over the edge of insanity.
My grandmother was always the kindest lady and it wasn’t until her Dementia and Alzheimer’s kicked in that I saw how clever and funny she was, which no doubt was cultivated over the years by the dry wit of my grandpa. In her final years, sometimes she could be a little mean, but inside, I knew Momsy was the sweetheart she had always been and was only confused and angry at her declining mental state and the general feeling of lostness after Popsy passed and she moved to assisted living. I don’t think I’ll ever be as kind as my grandma was. Joe will tell you I can be downright mean, and only God himself knows the depth of my cynicism and insecurity-fed pride. I figure my crotchety pregnancy persona is probably only a glimpse of what is to transpire as I age from fertile to senile. If Momsy could send out a flame here and there, undoubtedly I’ll be fighting forest fires.
So I am walking a balance trying to reign in my nature. I may be uncomfortably large, but I am greatly blessed. Though my love handles may be spilling over my sides, I’d rather my jerkish tendencies not spill out on those who cross my path. The pregnancy card may be used to purchase things such as the large pizza I am about to go pick up, but it can’t be used to buy back my words and actions. Moments like the one I had today with Scooby, sitting on the deck drinking chocolate chocolate milk with our backs to the warm sun, remind me just how sweet life really is and what little right I have to complain.
5 Comments
erin
loved this.
keep em' coming.
sharon
i snorted a few times reading this. & i winced because some of it was like me, minus the preggers part.
you will greatly enjoy this post in 40 years, too.
The Conservationist
Jason avoids antiperspirants and cookware containing heavy metals that break down easily, and takes diatomaceous earth to avoid dementia and Alzheimer's
had fun with you guys this morning!
Mama Goose
I thought people flashing lights when you are merging in front of them was a sign to go ahead, they have backed off to give you space. I hadn't heard it was a warning to NOT do so.
Paige
Amy, me too. She was definitely accelerating on me and then whipped around me.