Sometimes I forget that I’m pregnant.
And then I walk in front of my vanity mirror. (Seriously, Kate Middleton is 8 months pregnant and it looks like she swallowed a little kids’ basketball. I am 6 months pregnant and it looks like I swallowed Kate Middleton).
Or I open up the refrigerator to retrieve a carton of eggs, marvel over how light it is, and then open it to realize that it contains exactly one dozen cracked-open-and-used-up eggs; I have no recollection of either using them or putting them back in the refrigerator instead of the trashcan where they belong (Momnesia).
Or a spilled drink in the living room leads to a massive hormonal breakdown wherein I lament the loss of “my happy heart”. When my husband reminds me of how happy I felt all weekend, I wail that “it only lasted for…TWO DAYS!!!!” (Which really is quite sad and cry-worthy).
And with these glaring reminders, I remember…
I’m so pregnant.
I keep trying to function as if I am not.
But I am.
Really and truly and undeniably pregnant.
Which explains a lot. The crying. The impatience. The fuzzy brain. My giant, poofy, out-of-control hair. The nearly 80 rough drafts in my blog’s system, waiting to be completed. The unfinished books I am…or was…writing…
On Monday, I shared the following update on facebook:
“I was just working on a blog post yesterday about the peace and contentment that blanketed my spirit all weekend…
and then today I’m like ‘EVERYBODY PIPE DOWN AND LET ME EAT MY ICE CREAM!!!!!’
Pregnancy hormones. I need to start writing my posts in one sitting before the voice and tone in my head changes drastically…I have no idea now how to finish yesterday’s post.”
Which is just so true. It is exceedingly difficult to be a writer…or a blogger…or even a person…when you are a different shade of crazy for every day of the week. The sentimental and tender-hearted sap that you were on Saturday is a raging and frustrated maniac on Monday, and trying to find the girl that you were a week ago is as difficult as finding a carton of eggs in your refrigerator that actually has eggs in it.
Lord, have mercy.
So if my blog seems a bit…erratic…lately, that’s because it is.
I’ll be all lovey-dovey about Mr. Gore one day, and then the next day I’m on a cleaning rampage and am decluttering like Martha Stewart is coming over for supper, and then the next day I’m making promises to revisit the mischievous adventures of Betsie Fair, and then the next day I sit down to write a follow-up post to any of the above series and I go “blink, blink. Who am I? What have I been writing about this week, again? Did I mention something about a June bride series? Did we really have a tea party at my house on Saturday? And where are my eggs, for crying out loud?!…”
But the good news is, I know from experience that, Lord willing, these things will pass, and one fair day I’ll realize out of the blue that…
I’m nice again.
I’m on top of things.
My happy heart is back.
My blog makes sense (sort of).
I don’t look like I swallowed a princess.
I no longer want to rip my quilt in half when the kids are being loud…
Mrs. Gore is back!
Until then, I promise to hang in there, and even to keep blogging, if you promise to hang with me and have zero expectations for me to follow through on anything I tell you I am going to do.
Now seriously. Where are my eggs?
Coming up next at Mrs. Gore’s Diary…I have no idea!