I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.-–Walt Whitman
Tuesday morning I sounded my barbaric yawp across the bed. OK, maybe it wasn’t so much a yawp as a shriek, and maybe not so much in manly affirmation as womanly irritation, but it still felt good. Sometimes you just have to scream your bloody head off, and when you’ve got crazy hormones and a large supply of pent-up rage, it’s one of those times.
My rage had been stoked on Monday. Faithful Reader and I were arguing. Over what, I don’t recall (perhaps he was breathing too loudly or something). He left and slammed the door and I got so mad that I wanted to throw something. First I picked up my cup of tea. No, I thought, there’s sugar in the tea, which will be sticky, and the cup will break and cut the cats’ paws. I put it down and grabbed a box of paperclips. No, I thought, the box will break open, the paper clips will go everywhere, and the cats will eat them. Damn. So I picked up a stapler. Too heavy; it will gouge the door. The last thing I thought to throw was a cat, but by then I was so frustrated that I just started crying, lucky for Mojo, the nearest cat.
I think it’s funny the way my thoughts went back and forth between crazy and sane. I haven’t been this wacky since the years I spent on the Pill. Back then, I used to go into rages that made the zombies of 28 Days Later look serene by comparison. I now know that I was suffering a side-effect not just of the Pill, but of what it simulates—pregnancy.
I still have five more months of pregnancy to go. That’s five more months of crazy hormones, and then there’s the post-partum period. Oh my. I guess I’ll just have to hold on to my sense of humor, and if that doesn’t work, there’s always the barbaric yawp.
Better cover your ears, just in case.
