I’m trying to keep myself quite calm and measured whilst I write this post, but the reality is… I’m fuming. I’m angry and disgruntled and ready to snap. Little Pickle’s Dad (LPD) left the house over 6 hours ago and has yet to return. He often volunteers at the weekend at a nearby National Trust property – which I think is lovely and I’m very proud of him – but his ‘I won’t be long, sweet’ did not prepare me for pretty much a whole day on my tod. Is it just me, or does ‘won’t be long’ maybe equate to 2-3 hours? NOT 6+ HOURS AND COUNTING.

Now, I know my own body. I know that the pregnancy hormones coursing through me are making me react disproportionately. This has been happening with more and more regularity these days and as much as I’m trying to keep it under control, it’s pretty hard. I’m the happiest I think I’ve ever been in general day-to-day life but weirdly, the most prone to breaking out into tears for the tiniest of things. Fits of rage consume me and I’ve been known to flounce out of a room, take myself off to bed or (most often) snap something horrible and catty at poor LPD.

When he suggested he might want to get a new job before Pickle is born (and therefore making himself illegible for paternity leave), the following words left my mouth before I even knew it: ‘Brilliant, when your first born child doesn’t recognise you because you haven’t spent any time with them, it’s okay. You can console yourself with the fact you earn an extra Β£1 an hour‘. I don’t think that went down very well.

Overreacting Pregnant Lady

The thing is, I think with everything I’ve gotten annoyed at – it’s been justified. The situation or event has been suitably annoying or frustrating but ordinarily, I can just cope better. And then I just wind myself up because I don’t want to become an unreasonable, angst-ridden mess which sets me off even more. I’ve turned into some crazy nightmare version of myself and my own worst enemy.

Uh oh. LPD just rang. He’s finally on his way home. He asked if I wanted him to pick anything up for our return.

My reply?

Milk. And a replacement husband for the one who’s abandoned me all day.

‘Anything else, sweet?’

The last 6 hours of my life back?

Hormones.