The internet is flooded with open letters to the church, ex-husband’s wives, and unborn children. That’s the tip of the iceberg folks—all sorts of open letters exist, some entertaining, some heart-wrenching, and others bitter and awkward.
I’m joining in with the bands of folks shouting to the walls of the World Wide Web and am penning an open letter to pregnancy hormones. Specifically estrogen and progesterone. Those little divas…
Without further adieu:
An Open Letter to Pregnancy Hormones
Dear tiny chemical messengers surging through my body,
These words may be a bit bristly. I’m feeling a bit bristly, thanks to you ladies ravaging your way through my anatomy. YOU ARE MAKING ME MISERABLE.
There. I said it. I love that you’re doing yo’ business, getting to growing my baby, but my goodness You have sucked my energy clear out of me and I don’t have time to lack energy. There’s laundry, and food prep, and cleaning, and writing, and bathing, and shopping, and playing, and reading to my toddler…
I don’t feel like you’re really understanding my predicament here. The other day, because I was too tired to JUMP when Oliver said “poop” we ended up with a steaming pile of the stuff on our bathroom floor.
That nausea you’re tossing my way? Not a great mix, friend. NOT A GREAT MIX.
And then you do this thing to me, this inability to sleep. WHAT? I hear all day from you, “rest, rest, rest!” and then when I hit the hay, you’re all like, “Nah, JK, let’s party!” Not cool. Not funny.
Because you know what that leads to? Uncontrolled and unexplained crazy person crying over a pot of mac and cheese. All my toddler wanted was some mac and cheese, but I’m so wickedly tired that his incessant chant of “Cheese? Cheese? CHEESE?” has broken my soul down to weeping.
What is it that you think I’m doing, dear boy? Stirring the air to taunt you? I’M WORKING ON IT, MAN.
Tears. Because crazy. And because of YOU little devils.
Truly, I’m grateful for you. And I’m not asking you to vacate. Please, please stay and do your work. But I want to be open and honest and communicative with you because that’s healthy, right?
Speaking of healthy, I’d like to eat healthy things. I really do desire that. But the sight of that pile of spinach sitting in the fridge makes me gag. And I forced down my asparagus last night. I LOVE ASPARAGUS. What have you done?
I want chocolate chip cookies. Or Trader Joe’s frozen mac and cheese (seriously, if you haven’t had it, treat yo’self). Or Ranch dressing straight into my mouth. Or MacDons anything. I feel gross for even admitting that last one…but for the love of healthiness, give me a craving for SALAD.
Oh, and last night when I was reading to Oliver before bedtime? I couldn’t get through Love You Forever without breaking down in tears. Multiple times.
And I know this is just the beginning of your shenanigans. I know there’s more to come from your little bag of tricks. I want you to know that although I’m ready, I’m also very not ready.
This baby growing business is wild. You guys go and make it unpredictable, and I don’t love that. I don’t.
But I do love that you’re still here, still making me miserable because that means that I’m growing a baby. I can begrudgingly get behind that strategy as long as you keep up the good and terrible work you’re doing.
Capiche? Are we good? Did I say too much?
I’ve got a deal for you: I’ll forgive you for your nasty little habit of making me feel all sorts of gross and you keep working your tail off to grow my baby.
I hope that suits you all right. I do apologize for anything overly harsh I threw your way. I meant every word, but no offense and everything, ya know? Just making sure it’s all out there. Communication. Throw tact and wisdom out the window and lay it all out. That’s the way of things, am I right?
The Pregnant Lady on Third Street