My Little Lioness

lion_cubWhen you get down to it, there isn’t much in the world that can put out the fire in little Jill’s heart. She has a smile that would melt the frozen tundra, and somehow she manages to be both delicate and strong. Within her tiny frame, all 3 and a half feet of her, is the spirit of a lioness.

Jill has a love of horses.

Although she already spends her days at a farm, she would stay there all night, too, if she could. She would probably curl up in some clean corner of a stall, not far away from one of her four legged friends, if we but turned our back on her for long enough.

Last year, a few months after she started attending therapy at the farm, she made friends with a pretty little white pony, named Crystal.

Crystal has a love for her human friends that shines as bright as Jill’s smile. She is a “hog” for attention, and is just the right size for little Jill. With her therapist walking at her side one day, Jill rode Crystal around the field of tall grasses, and around the old cottage at the foot of the driveway, and around the decrepit old shed that is overgrown with ivy and other vines.

Jill’s father and I were chatting with the mom of another little boy who attended therapy there, talking animatedly about how we were going to haul the family away right after Jill’s therapy session, for a blissful weekend of camping at French Beach. Jill and her little brother Jack were excited to go, too. They were looking forward to playing with their glowsticks in a darkened tent, and getting filthy and not having to shower for a whole three days.

So, the smile that we had on our faces as we turned toward the sound belied the intensity of the bloodcurdling shriek that came from the direction of the ivy-covered shed. We looked in that direction, naturally concerned, but stayed where we were. It sounded for all the world like a typical meltdown, and we knew full well the therapist could handle it.

Call us callous, but we’re used to the meltdowns, and we know when we can let others deal with it. Before long, however, we saw the therapist walking back up the driveway with Jill in her arms, still in the middle of a full on screaming meltdown.

We had to shout to be heard over Jill. Still, we managed to ferret out the gist of what had happened- as she was riding along on Crystal, a fern wrapped itself around Jill’s arm, setting off her sensory issues. She started screaming and crying, and launched herself off the pony and onto the unsuspecting therapist, who wasn’t prepared to catch her. Although we didn’t know it then, Jill had broken her arm by landing on her therapist.

Since we had all our worldly goods stowed in the back of our van, in preparation for a weekend away, we also had some children’s Tylenol. Without really knowing why, but figuring it would take away the inevitable headache that results from your run of the mill Epic Meltdown, we laced her thoroughly with it. Also figuring it would sort itself out before long, we ended the session, carefully bundled the kids into the car, and headed to French Beach anyway.

Alas, we got there to find out our reservation hadn’t “stuck”… our spot had been given away, and so had all the others. So, as we turned back home, we had two kids melting down in the back of the van. Jack was new to the whole thing, but he knew he was missing out. As for Jill, there wasn’t much that could tear her away from the idea of camping for a whole weekend. Having to turn around when she could see the trees and the other kids playing was as close to the Apocalypse as you could get.

It wasn’t until the next day, when we realized Jill couldn’t lift her arm without screaming bloody murder, that we knew something was actually wrong. After spending half a day in the hospital to get the verdict, my partner and I were ready to throw in the towel.

“I guess we’ll have to stay home this weekend,” I said, heaving a sigh.

Jill, her arm already in a sling, issued an emphatic “no”, in her own way; to wit, crying and wailing about how she still wanted to go camping.

We did go, after all. It wasn’t to French Beach, but rather to Saltspring Island- the only place we could find a spot, but also the best place we could have ever landed. Throughout that weekend, I watched my little girl play, almost as if nothing was wrong. She couldn’t lift her arm, or put weight on it, however, which meant she couldn’t climb or help us carry things. She did get good and dirty, though. I don’t think there was a single spot on her that was still clean by the end of the weekend. She gloried in all the dirt, and did her level best to take most of it home with her by wearing it.

When we came home, all exhausted and sunburned but oddly happy in spite of all things, I fully expected our little city-bred farm girl to tell me she wanted nothing to do with horses anymore. After all, she did break her arm jumping off of one. Between the three of us, her therapist and my partner and I, we hoped we could at least talk her into attending her sessions at the farm, even if she didn’t want to be near the horses. There was even mention of letting her choose which horse or pony she wanted to ride, out of all of them.

Now, Crystal doesn’t stand very tall. On my 5’8” frame, her head might come to my shoulders. She is not the smallest on the farm by a long shot, but neither is she the biggest. The biggest horse there, in fact, is a Percheron gelding by the name of Viktor. His withers are just about level with the top of my head; he is perhaps twice as tall as Crystal, and at least three times as big, overall…

And my daughter wanted to ride him.

The very next Friday she sat astride the huge horse, looking not much bigger than a Lego figurine on his back. She sported her bright pink riding helmet, a dark blue arm sling, and a proud smile to put the sun to shame.

An Open Letter to the Lady at Tim Horton’s

being-judgemental-300x300You stood, a little to the left of the line-up, waiting for your food at the local Tim Horton’s. Well dressed, and with your hair done “just so”, you almost seemed too posh to be standing where you were. There was a scowl on your face that seemed so etched in that one would almost say it was permanent. You made no sound to anyone, but you didn’t need to: your general disdain was like a perfume whose scent you’ve become so used to that you can no longer tell how much you’ve put on.

I stood in the line with my family, 5 or 6 people back from you. We were there to treat ourselves to something nice, in an effort to shake off some of the residue of what had been a bad week. The expression on my face mirrored my partner’s: worn out, irritated and a little sad.

My daughter, thank the gods, was being on her best behaviour. She quietly eyed the display of delicious-looking cookies and donuts, knowing full well that one of them would soon be hers. This was rare for her. No, it’s not terribly rare for her to be getting a treat at one of her favourite places, but it is rare for her to be so well behaved while waiting for it.

Usually, she is one to act out the most out of the two kids.

My son, on the other hand, was determined to lie down on the dirty floor in spite of the grip I had on his hand. I must have told him to stand up, in a normal tone, about 10 times all told. He kept doing it regardless of what I said because, frankly, he can be single-minded like that. That inherent single-mindedness is not only part of being a little boy, but it’s part of being a little boy with Autism.

You wouldn’t know that he- and his sister, for that matter- was Autistic, unless you knew him well, or even just knew what some of the characteristics of Autism were.

It must have been after I had told him to stand up for the 8th time, that you turned around and looked at my son (who was still sprawled on the floor just then) with a roll of your eyes, and then shot me a dirty look. It was a look I’ve seen before, no doubt like many parents of special needs kids.

It’s the look seems to suggest I ought to discipline my child better, or maybe that I’m not a good parent.

It’s the look that asks, in silent judgement: “What’s wrong with your child?”

I ignored you then, despite wanting to tell you off for staring so rudely.

After the 10th time of wearily telling my boy to stand up and hauling him to his feet, his father chimed in, with a stern tone of voice- a command.

It was not a yell. It was not belittling or abusive. It was just a tone that brooked no argument. Our boy shot to his feet and stayed there.

That’s when your food arrived (thank god). You grabbed it off the counter, and stared at my partner and I in judgement and disdain. I didn’t say anything, but stared right back until you passed behind me.

As an Autism parent, I meet a lot of people like you- people who think that Autism is just an excuse for “bad” behaviour.

People who don’t think there’s really anything different about kids like mine, and that they should be treated- and expected to behave- like every other “normal” child out there.

People who call kids like mine retards.

People who think these kids’ “bad” behaviour is the result of bad parenting.

Your attitude, and that of many like you, is one side of a coin. On the other side are those people who believe all the clichés about Autism: that people with this disorder are always geniuses, or they have some special gift (think Rainman), or whatever.

I don’t have as hard of a time tolerating those people, no matter how irritating it can be to try to dispel the myths that have cropped up around Autism, because I know they aren’t saying them out of any disdain. It comes from a place of assumptions, but not from a place of judgement.

I can be at peace with their attitude, no matter how misguided it may be.

People like you, though, make my job as an Autism parent all the harder. As it stands, I find myself constantly having to advocate for my children’s rights and needs more than a parent of “normal” children might. Even though my kids are only 5 and 3, I have already had to stand up to quite a few ignoramuses on their behalf.

I know that my children will likely have a lifetime of dealing with bullies and people like you, simply because they don’t behave like other kids, and that truly hurts my heart.

I wish we lived in a world where people remembered that there are always two sides to a story. Things are not always the way they look on the surface.

The Almighty Schedule

20150314_201637Schedules are kind of a big thing in my household.

Like many autism parents, I’m sure, we have one of those dry-erase weekly schedules hanging up on our door. The point of it, besides detailing what activities each day had in store (including the mundane stuff, like eating), is to give the kiddos peace of mind and help them ease from one activity to another. It has the space to write either the days of the week, or the whole month on it if you are so inclined, and my super-awesome partner has printed out and laminated a bunch of little clip-art pictures to indicate different activities, such as an apple for mealtimes, or a clock for appointments.

There is even a little picture with a cartoon doctor and patient, to represent… you guessed it!… doctor appointments. Remember that, because it’ll be on the test.

Last Sunday, like every Sunday, I allowed Jill to watch me while I made the schedule for that week. She likes to “help”… and by help, I mean stand there and watch while I make the schedule, and then doodle 5 or 6 pretty little stars along the bottom of the calendar after I’m done.

Hey, it gives her a feeling of accomplishment. Who am I to judge?

Anyway, when I stuck the pictures on for all the usual daily things, I started with the other stuff. I put a little clock on Wednesday and Thursday morning, to signify that she and Jack had an appointment with their OT. Since the kids are on spring break, and since I don’t have pictures of dogs to indicate when we go to walk a friend’s dog, I wrote the name “Milo” where needed.

And then, there was the little doctor picture. Remember the doctor picture?

I put the doctor on Wednesday afternoon, and wrote a little “2pm” next to it, and thought nothing further about the whole thing.

I thought nothing further about it, that is, until Tuesday afternoon. For some god-forsaken reason, I thought I should double-check the appointment time on my Outlook calendar, where I make a note of every little appointment we ever have, anywhere.

Lo and behold, as I click on Wednesday the 11th, I find…nothing.

Crap.

I click on Tuesday the 10th, wondering if I might have missed it by accident.

Nope. Nada.

I stare blankly at my computer screen for a moment, a sudden feeling of dread coming over me. A little voice at the back of my head whispered: “Well, you fucked up.”

The kids were oblivious to my despair. They sat at their little table, colouring in a couple of activity books.
I eyed them carefully.

Then, like a desperate parent smuggling a freshly bought chocolate bar into their secret stash, I slowly put my laptop down on the couch. I quietly got up off the couch, wincing and shooting a glance at the kids every time the couch squeaked. I shuffled into the front hall, my back turned to the living room, and quickly moved the doctor picture over to Thursday.

“What you doing, Mommy?” Jill’s delicate little voice piped up, from directly behind me.

“FUCKING HELL!” I exclaimed, whirling around. “You scared the crap out of me! I’m fixing a boo-boo, honey.”

“You don’t say ‘fucking’, Mommy, you say freaking,” she informed me.

“Um. Sure,” I replied, forcing a smile. Straightening up, I tried my best to casually stroll back into the living room as if nothing happened… nothing was different.

Jill stood there in front of the wall schedule. She started crying. Jack, still sitting at the table, starting crying in sympathy.

Crap. Double crap.

Jill loves going to the doctor. She’d been looking forward to the appointment all week, even though she’s not sick and the whole point of the appointment was just to get a referral to another type of doctor. Nonetheless, the mistake was practically earth shattering as far as she was concerned.

I rushed back to my little girl, and started to comfort her, saying that I made a mistake and put the doctor picture on the wrong day. It took me 15 minutes to get her to stop crying, and when I did, she finally spoke up: “It’s in the wrong place.”

“I know, honey. I made a little mistake, putting the picture on the wrong day. We’ll go on Thursday instead.”

Jill appeared to accept that reassurance, just then, but appearances can be deceptive. In fact, in the couple of hours between that moment and dinner time, she positioned herself in front of the calendar what must have been 50 more times and stared at it. Even while she was colouring, or eating her meal later on, she repeated several times that the appointment was going to be on Thursday and not Wednesday, and that I had put the picture in the wrong time slot.

See… you just don’t mess with the schedule. Once you make it, it might as well be set in stone. It’s though you have climbed that mountain and chiseled it into those two tablets, because you might as well be Moses, with his Commandments.

The Art of Having Good Manners

rude-behavior1When I was growing up, manners were everything. If you didn’t mind your P’s and Q’s, you didn’t get what you were asking for, and it was as simple as that. More than just saying please and thank you when it was appropriate, we were expected to excuse ourselves when it was called for, and say “bless you” or at least “gesundheit” whenever someone sneezed, and what have you.

My partner came from a similar household, so we do our best to instill good manners in our children- especially when we are bombarded daily with a distinct lack of courtesy: kids who demand or take something without saying please and thank you, people who let doors shut in others’ faces, and so on. It makes me wonder what the parents were doing while those kids were busy growing up.

Now, I’m not perfect. My partner is not perfect, and neither are my kids. We all slip up now and again, but at least the effort is there. I can honestly say that, at age 5, Jill has a firm concept of what good manners are. Whether she always uses them… well… that remains to be seen.

One thing she never lets pass is the opportunity to say “bless you” when someone sneezes. I would even go as far as to say she is practically militant about it.

Although she has said “bless you” to a sneeze since we first taught her to many moons ago, a little while back she must have come to some decision to take it up a notch.

On the evening in question, my partner was lounging on the couch while working on his laptop. I was in the kitchen gathering up the dishes to put in the dishwasher. I had literally just put the kids through their bedtime ritual not moments before, so they were playing out all their leftover energy in their room. I could hear them talking and giggling and jumping on the bed.

My partner sneezed.

Out of the kids’ bedroom, there came Jill’s tiny voice: “Bless you!”

I don’t think their dad heard it. Not even a moment passed before Jill got a little more assertive.

“I SAID BLESS YOU!” she screamed.

I yelled back that Daddy said “thanks”, even though I know he hadn’t heard her at all.

After that evening, she started being almost obnoxious in her courtesy, when it came to sneezes. She let it be known that she expected a “thank you” when she gave her blessing after someone sneezed, only she didn’t really give them a chance to answer before launching her inner diva at them.

Lately, Jill has taken it up another notch.

About a week ago, we were in a similar sort of position. I had just put the kids down for the night, and was putting away some dishes while their Daddy worked on his laptop.

He happened to sneeze a few times (how dare he?).

Out of the bedroom, there came that tiny little voice again: “Bless you!”

And then, not seconds later: “I SAID BLESS YOU!”

My partner heard it this time, and said “thank you”, but I don’t think Jill caught it because it wasn’t a few more moments before I heard: “Did you say thank you?”

We both burst out laughing. If it weren’t for that fact, we would’ve answered her before she screamed: “SAY THANK YOU!”

I think her next step may be to come out of the bedroom and get right in the poor sneezer’s face. You know, before my daughter, I never would have thought simple courtesy could be aggressive.

The Bedtime Ritual

5f98828d2d81f27b0478d9828f7a372aMy kids are creatures of habit.

Well, perhaps it’s more accurate to say they are creatures of routine.

Jack and Jill can be flexible, when it comes to what goes on during their day, don’t get me wrong. They roll with the punches, as it were. As my partner and I have come to discover, however, there just some things that you don’t mess with.

Ever.

Not even if the house were on fire, and getting out alive meant Jill couldn’t wash her hands after going potty (because then you would have a house fire AND a screaming meltdown on your hands).

Not even if the richest person in the world offered you obscene amounts of money, but collecting it meant you had to pick it up at the doors of Walmart without actually going in to shop.

You just don’t mess with that kind of thing.

Here’s the deal, though: you can change a routine by adding to it, without any incident. If you take any part of it away… well… heaven forbid. I’m sure taking items away from a set routine is a popular activity for masochistic A.S.D parents.

I, however, am not a masochist.

With that being said, as I reflect on some of the weirder routines my kids have, I suppose I am probably a glutton for punishment.

For instance, the rational part of me knows not to add anything new to the bedtime ritual. After all, once something new is said or done, it can never be taken away, ever, until the end of your life as you know it. In fact, it’s this particularly idiotic trait of mine that has led to the bedtime ritual being the way it is. I shudder at the thought of an onlooker witnessing this nightly show.

Imagine, if you will, a small bedroom, crowded with furniture and toys. Imagine two small kids who are expert climbers and mischief makers. Imagine a little boy who has his own bed, but refuses to sleep in it because he likes to be near his sister.

There is a mom who, exhausted from the day, shuffles the kids into a darkened bedroom lit only by a night light, because the little boy’s compulsive fascination with flicking switches has led to the dad duct-taping the damn light switch in the “off” position.

Mom checks the room for hidden dangers because, if there is one, her kids will surely find it. It’s certainly part of Murphy’s Law and, well… Murphy’s Law is what masquerades as this particular Mom’s luck.

After a thorough look, she picks up certain stuffed animals as the kids hop up onto the bed: three little horses (Crystal, Tazzy and Jasper, after the ones Jill rides at therapy), a brown bunny, a Hello Kitty doll, Sick Bear- a giant teddy bear that is as big as Jill- a small black teddy bear, and a sock monkey doll.

The kids stand on the bed, waiting eagerly for their turn. Jill is first, and it goes like this:

Me: “Wipe your face.”

Slobbery kisses and a tight hug follow.  I’m pretty sure Jill thinks the words “wipe your face” are followed by an unspoken “on Mommy’s face”.

Crystal, the white horse, starts off this part of the routine.

Me: “Where does Crystal go?”

Jill: “On my left arm!”

I put the white horse down on her left arm.

Me: “Where does Tazzie go?”

Jill: “On my right arm!”

I put the brown horse down on her right arm.

Me: “Where does Jasper go?”

Jill: “On my left arm!”

I put the brown horse with the white mane and tail on her left arm.

Me: “Where does Bunny go?”

Jill: “On my right arm!”

I put Bunny next to Tazzie.

Me: “Where does Hello Kitty go?”

Jill: “On my chest!”

Hello Kitty goes smack in the middle of it all.

Me: “Where does Sick Bear go?”

Jill (with squeals and giggles): “On my face!!!”

Then, I count to three, yell “Bonzai!” and drop the giant teddy bear on her face. All you can see is a pile of stuffed animals, not unlike the one in the picture above (except, you know, inside) topped with the over-sized Sick Bear, with only two little feet sticking out at the end.

Jack’s part in this bit is thankfully simpler. With him, it’s a matter of counting to three before dropping the black teddy bear and the sock monkey on him, followed by covering everyone and everything with a blanket.

This is not the point at which I leave; no, no, no.

Because at some point in the past I couldn’t keep my mouth shut, I now wish them goodnight this way:

“I love you both. Don’t climb on the shelves. Don’t climb on the furniture. Don’t turn on the light. Don’t open the closet. Sleep well!”

Finally (blessedly), I get to leave the room.

One day I’ll get the clue: if the routine is perfect, don’t mess with it.

The Art of Embarrassing Mom

Mom-Confessions-Most-Embarrassing-Thing-My-Kid-Has-DoneOne of the more entertaining hallmarks of Autism is the tendency toward random acts of totally inappropriate behaviour. Considering that Jack is only 3 years old, you could also chalk it up to his being a rambunctious youngster. After all, kids have an unnerving ability to say or do the wrong thing at the right time… or maybe, it’s the right thing at the wrong time.

I guess it depends on how you look at it.

Jack has mastered the art of inappropriate behaviour, a task which he seems to regard as his God-given duty.

Read on…

The Moon over Miami

It’s a fun game for Jack to reach into the grocery cart from his perch at the front, and grab the nearest thing he can find. If you’re not quick on the draw, he’ll pitch that item- no matter what it is- out of the cart.

Imagine knowing this, and having no alternative but to place that carton of eggs you just grabbed into your over-stuffed cart right behind his perch, where he can easily grab them. Imagine that you are wearing a comfortable pair of yoga pants that have no belt, and an annoying tendency to ride down your butt any time you bend over.

Grabbing his hands and holding them doesn’t work, no! Jack screams bloody murder, as if by the very the act of holding his hands you are committing a great atrocity that will be the end of his world, right then and there. Life as he knows it is over. Give the boy an Oscar!

There the eggs sit, all pristine and beckoning in their too-fragile cardboard carton, practically begging for a couple of tiny hands attached to a mischievous smile to grab them. Naturally, because his entire existence is centered around getting in trouble (as if the resulting scolding is somehow life-affirming), he waited until my attention was engaged elsewhere, grabbed the egg carton, and hurled it like he was trying out as a pitcher out for the local pro baseball team.

Fortunately, nobody was in the way of that particular projectile. Not so fortunately, the eggs practically exploded as the carton hit the ground. I, in my terribly comfortable yoga pants that have never actually seen the inside of a yoga studio, stooped down to pick up the woefully inadequate (and now yoke-filled) carton, flashing almost my entire ass- minus even my underwear because they, too, went south- to everyone behind me.

Yes indeed, the moon CAN rise in the middle of the day.

I’ll be lucky if my Moon over Miami doesn’t appear on the People of Walmart website because, with my luck, there was probably someone behind me with a cell-phone camera at the ready, and an itchy trigger finger.

The Bait and Tackle

Jack and Jill both attend several different types of therapy for their Autism, all of which take place at a local horse farm. On this farm, there happens to be a small fenced-in play area, and it was here that I placed Jack one fine day while I talked to two of his therapists not a few feet away.

While the adults chatted, Jack played happily. It didn’t take long, however, for one of his therapists to gently interrupt what I was saying by pointing over to my son.

It was a good thing it was a warm summer day because, as I looked over at him, Jack stood by the fence staring at us adults, and calmly dropped his drawers, diaper and all. He stood there with a giant grin on his face, his bait and tackle waving in the breeze, as I stared back and groped for something to say.

His therapists laughed.

“Well, that proves it,” I said, eventually. “He’s definitely his father’s son.”

The Immortal Words

The family cat is kind of a psycho beast. She loves her adult humans, and tolerates the presence of the mini humans. She has been known to be all lovey-dovey one minute, and all hissing and biting the next.

Jack, since one particular incident last year, avoids her like the plague.

My partner was out of town for a week in November, and so I was left to look after the kids by myself. We were between meals with nothing to particular to do that day, so I sat on the couch typing away on my laptop while the kids played with their toys on the living room floor.

Or, so I thought.

One moment, they were both happily engaged, and in the next moment Jack had wandered over to where the cat was laying and grooming herself. He seemed to be just looking at her, but looks can be deceiving- especially where Jack is concerned.

Our cat found out that day that my son is a quick little bugger. In a flash, he lurched forward, his little tongue darting out to lick the cat’s head, from neck to ears.

I uttered words I never thought I would ever hear myself say:

“Jack, don’t lick the cat!”

Yup… life with my family is definitely interesting.

How to Annoy a Pregnant Woman

As everyone knows, the act of getting yourself pregnant is all fun and games.  It was for me, but that’s a story for another day.

I went into the whole pregnancy thing expecting to have morning sickness for 2 or 3 months, to feel like a beached whale, and to give birth the natural way within a few days of my projected due date.

Boy, was I in for a shock.  I had morning sickness from what seemed like the day I conceived both kids to the day they were born.  With my first pregnancy, everything started off all hunky-dory.  I got the usual morning sickness, all the usual first-trimester symptoms- the stuff I expected to have.  What I didn’t really expect was to start developing issues with different foods and smells.  That is to say, it got to the point where virtually every smell I encountered was enough to make me gag, and the only foods I could eat were pepperoni sticks, Ensure shakes, and rice or potatoes that had been drowned in Hoi Sin sauce. Ggaining weight got to be kind of tricky.

Then, there were the boobs.  Now, I’m not exactly on the small side to begin with, but almost as soon as I got pregnant, those things got freakishly huge.  I felt like I had a pair of balloons stuck on the front of me.  The real problem was, they were also very sore.  I felt like wrapping them each in packing paper, duct-taping a box over my chest and cramming Styrofoam esses in there, just to keep those suckers from moving around, or… you know… even being breathed on.

As soon as I started looking even vaguely pregnant, it was as though I sent out some kind of telepathic cue to every well-meaning belly rubber within a 10,000 km radius.  Suddenly, everybody wanted to rub my belly.  There was no respect for personal space, no sir! It didn’t matter if they were close family, or a complete stranger; it was kind of creepy, really. It was basically like I’d morphed into some kind of good luck Buddha statue, or one of those little troll dolls that were so popular in the ’90s. Every 5 minutes, it seemed like someone wanted to rub my growing bump, or ask me about the baby. I, for the most part, accepted it gracefully.  There were a few times, however, that I really had to restrain myself from going completely hormonal on those people.

05They asked whether I knew the gender yet, if I had any names picked out, what schools I wanted to send the baby to, and what my career plans for it were.  They came out of the woodwork with advice on what to do, what not to do, and how to catapult my child from one end of life to the other.  If I’d listened to everything, I would have either become a paranoid parent, or I would have had the strong urge to punch the next do-gooder who told me that bottle feeding was the root of all evil.

For the first half of each of my pregnancies, I happily answered all those questions, and listened to all that advice, as politely as I could.  I do try to be a nice person, after all.  For the last half of my pregnancies, since I felt bloated, uncomfortable and hormonal, however… I was not so nice.

Downright cruel sometimes, even.

On one particular day, I was about 8 months pregnant with my daughter.  Summer had taken hold, and it was a particularly hot day. I’d just gotten on the bus to go home, having been downtown running some errands that morning.  I was feeling ill, sweaty, uncomfortable, and generally bad-tempered, and I was about an inch away from bringing all that out on the next person unfortunate enough to speak to me.

It happened to be a little old lady. She sat in the empty seat next to me, smiling in that particular way that let me know what was going to come out of her mouth next. She leaned over to me a little, with a polite smile on her face, her floral perfume nearly making me gag.

“How far along are you?” she asked.

I could have just told her I was 8 and half months on, but that would have been the level-headed thing to do. I was feeling anything but level headed.

“I’m not pregnant,” I blurted out. “I’m just overweight.” I even managed to look close to tears. It was a pretty Oscar-worthy performance, actually.

For someone so small and frail-looking, she back-pedaled pretty quickly. A stream of apologies spewed from her mouth, and I’m pretty sure she turned a brighter red than her lipstick. I left her groping for something to say, as I got off the bus.

Normal Me would have smiled indulgently and answered nicely. Pregnant Me, however, figured it was perfectly O.K to behave like I had a particularly nasty case of PMS.

My partner came into the bedroom to ask me what was wrong; after I got home, I slammed the door, and hurled myself onto the bed to bawl my eyes out. I still can’t remember what I managed to choke out between sobs, but he tells me it was something about whales, old ladies, stupid buses, and perfume. Since he didn’t really understand what I was saying, he did what any sane person with a pregnant and hormonal partner would do: he backed away and ran to get the chocolate.