The Hormonal Hulk

Oh man I'm in a bad mood.

I think the dark cloud above my head has a smaller cloud above IT.

This is the thing with pregnancy.
One day you're humming lullabies and making little tiny baby hats with sparkles in your eyes and the next your jugular veins are sticking out of your neck and your kids are scared you'll eat their brains the next time you get hungry.
Which is, like, every four minutes.

I just can't control it.
It isn't for any tangible reason, really.
Nothing I can pinpoint.

I mean, the screaming doesn't help.
The fist fights aren't awesome.
Neither is the fact that 45% of my job involves wiping someone's butt.
Neither does the back ache or what feels like stumps for feet.
I'm not fond of hearing myself say things like,
"Russian Nesting Dolls are not for throwing at your sister's head."
It doesn't help my mood that Tessa's favorite thing to do in public now is to shove her little midget head up under my maternity shirts so the fabric stretches against her face like some creepy scene from Alien.
Or that when she does that it exposes the giant full panel of my lovely maternity jeans as I try to free her as she giggles.

Evil beast.

I'm not in love with the fact that at only mid way through my pregnancy I'm already getting comments like,
"Wow. Look at your belly! How cute. HOW far along are you now?"

I know what you're saying, people.

I know that you're really thinking that I look more like you did at 7 months than 4.
Need I remind that I was not a size 2 to begin with?
Need I remind this is baby number 4 and pregnancy number 7?
My body is more silly putty than elastic.
And if ONE PERSON asks me if I'm having twins or triplets this pregnancy, I am promising without a doubt that I am going to get violent.

I will be on the news.

A mug shot will happen.

By baby number four, you're over the La La Land of pregnancy and more in
Look at Me Wrong and You Die Land.

I mean, most days I wake up at 6:30 and am beckoned to IMMEDIATELY make breakfast for children who, Lord only knows how, ended up being morning people.
I am, and will never be one.
Before my eyelids can stay open on their own I'm toasting things and spreading things and looking for a sippy cup that doesn't have that wierd black stuff in the stopper.

Then daycare starts and it's a whole day of diapers and feeding and removing inedible objects from slobbery mouths.
Then there are the "Mamas" - THOUSANDS of them.
"Mama?! She hit me!"
"Mama?! I want Cheese-It's."

"Mama?! MAMA? MAAAAAMMMMMAAAA?!"
"WHAT?!"

"I love you."

My mom says one day she'll actually keep track of how many times they say it.
She loves to mention that , "Pretty soon you'll have ANOTHER one calling you."
This is when I make the half-mast eye face at her. The face that says,

"Thanks. I hadn't thought of that."

By the time the daycare kids go home then I start dinner and help with homework then Justin calls to ask what's for dinner.
I haven't even eaten lunch.
I have literally not even sat down since I sat on the edge of my bed choking back tears aimed at my alarm at 6:30.

This is when I dunk his head under water repeatedly in my mind when he sounds less than thrilled with "Tuna casserole" as an answer.

Then it's baths and bed time which consists of 6 gallons of water on the tile and more demands than two terrorists could dream up.

They need to go potty.
They need a drink of water.
Tessa's spitting her water at me, can you tell her to stop?
Cwowie's wooking at me.
They are hot.
They are cold.
They need their feet tucked under their blanket like some helpless shut-in.
I can't find Spirit. (the 2 inch tall Parrot that Chloe must have at all times - WHY oh WHY does it have to be so small and hard to find?!)
You didn't pray that I'd have angels around my bed while I slept.
Daddy only gave me a kiss. He forgot the hug.

Bed time takes so long and so many trips up and down the stairs that I should just strap on ankle weights and make it my cardio.
I've thought of hooking up Skype to their bedroom just to save myself.

This is about the time I become Mean Mommy.
A Mommy who snaps things like,
"If you call me one more time I'm going to sell you to traveling gypsies. Now lay down and go to sleep!"

Justin just sits blinking at me from the couch when I go back downstairs for the 15th time.
He hears it all on the baby monitors as he eats the aforementioned tuna casserole and watches sports.
Looks relaxing to come home and REST.
I wouldn't know.
I'm finding Spirit.

I see the judging eyes that wonder why I'm not more calm with our precious angels.
My look tells him that I dare him to do more than chew and stare forward.

But I FEEL that I'm being unreasonable.
I don't need to be told.
I feel sorry for the kids at the same time as I'm losing my mind and my patience.

Yesterday at church I got approached by a girl who asked if I'd please call her and let her come watch the girls every so often.
She was actually ASKING ME.
She said, "I just LOVE watching them. They're so cute. Do you want my cell phone number?"

For a minute I looked around for hidden cameras.
Was that even a real question?

How does every Monday, Wednesday, Friday and alternating weekends from now till the end of time work for you?
Yes. Yes I want your cell phone.
You might have to block my number before it's over.

My poor poor family.

There's a pregnant troll living under their drawbridge.