So, it was brought to my attention by my older (and only, thank god) brother that my last post was practically unreadable because I came off as an unbearable suck-up. What did I tell him dear readers? To sod-off? Yeah, I probably should have but instead I investigated further asking if he had read more than the one post and when he said he had not, I wrote him off. When my kid refuses to read my writing but has a very loud opinion about it, at least I’ll be able to punish him accordingly. My favourite comment to my future child is going to be “Listen ass-monkey, I made you and I can break you just as easily.” Will I include the ass-monkey part? Probably, as being a sassy mouth is my natural comfort zone. Bestie and I have already decided the kid’s first words should be “oh, balls!” because how hilarious would that be coming out of the mouth of a toddler? Exactly. Anyway, why do I bring all this up you ask?

Well, my dear sweet avid, dependable, weekly readers of my blog, though this tiff with my brother was upsetting, albeit short-lived, the important bit is this: it didn’t make me cry. This is a big deal. This is a very big deal since this week everything seems to make me morph into a blubbering, quivering mass of grossness. Let me input a list of my crying material here for your reading convenience:

  1. The blonde, half a minute old chick on American Idol getting kicked off.
  2. Stevie Nicks’ version of “landslide” on the radio.
  3. Five dollar strawberries from the grocery store that turned out to be rotten.
  4. An empty toilet paper roll.
  5. A fancy North Vancouver baby store.

Just this last evening a Johnson & Johnson commercial came on our television, you know the one, the one where the voice-over for the baby says “you’re doing okay, mom.” and Husband turns around in his chair to check me up and down for the tears he suspected would be pouring out my eyeballs. I saw his look, and crazy night pregnant lady screams at him “No, I am not crying!” but the truth was I was fighting, literally willing the tears back into their ducts. I must not show weakness. I must not show weakness, I thought furiously. Do I want to buy Johnson & Johnson products now? You bet your ass I do.

I’ve always been a sensitive girl. Ask anyone. But this pregnancy deal has got me to a level of emotional flooding that has got to be unnatural. If I’m feeling overwhelmed, I cry. If I am hungry but too lazy to get up for food, I cry. If J is working late, I cry. If the dog jumps off the couch we share for a spot with less distraction, I cry.  If the cat looks at me sideways, I cry. If I have to poop, I cry! I need a mental health professional, or a cocktail. But since I can’t afford one and can’t ingest the other, I’ll just, you guessed it: cry.

Of all the symptoms of pregnancy, this is the only one I can’t seem to control or at the very least hide. I didn’t mind throwing up my bickies at work every morning like bloody clockwork. Nor did I mind falling asleep here, there and everywhere. When I got fat and my jugs blew up, I just wore more horrendously ugly, gargantuan clothes. When I got the hemorrhoids I simply walked slower and never ever sat! But when the uncontrollable tears use my cheeks like a runway until the rawness of my skin stings, I realise it’s the vulnerability I’m showing that sticks in my craw. I already know that I have doubts that I can do this, but when I’m crying because there is a cheesy stuck in my hair … then I know everyone else knows I doubt myself too.

I don’t think there is any silver lining the week, folks. No “good news” element which I try to include in every post. Usually when I’m doing something stupid these days I just conveniently blame the baby, but since I confessed on several occasions that I was already a crier, before being afflicted with … I mean blessed with baby … I’m just screwed here, people.

I’ll just have to start a support group. Me and my old man. Oh, and the nasty baby swinging from my … well, you know.