I don't remember being so edgy during my first pregnancy. I remember slogging through morning sickness, getting overly-emotional about random things (I cried more than once because the grocery store had "too many kinds of ice cream" and I couldn't choose), and going through what seemed like normal pregnancy mood swings where I could take a nap and feel better.
This go-round, my hormones have thrown me for a real loop. I think my moods are pretty normal-- or at least they would be normal if I were a pregnant rhinoceros. It's not just that I'm easily displeased, but that I feel the need to exact senseless revenge on the thing that has displeased me.
Ridiculous Example:On Wednesday, I scoured Yelp for "the food" that I needed that day. It ended up being carne asada fries: french fries adorned with melted cheese and guacamole, drizzled with crema fresca, and endowed with heaps of juicy carne asada. The pictures posted by customers set expectations high. When I got mine, something was... off. The cheese was all on one side, making all those fries stick together. I pulled on a loose end and the fry broke; I pulled on another fry and it, too, broke off leaving the majority of its goodness trapped in an impregnable blob of cheese. I felt the rage well up, so I decided to turn my attention to other merits of the fries: the meat. I scooped some up with a fork and dipped it in the crema fresca. Horror of horrors, it was crumbly and dry. "Bubble-bubble-bubble," simmered my hormone-infested blood.
Most people would be like, "Man, that's disappointing," and move on with their lives. I turned into the incredible Hulk: "Aaaargh! These fries are WRONG! You stupid, stupid fries!!!"
And then I sat there, hating them. The fries remained unimpressed with my rage (obviously to be expected... for a normal person) and that made me even angrier. There they sat, mocking my palate's hopes and dreams. Still cheese-blobby and covered in dry meat.
This is where the rhino bit comes into play. Because as a quasi-petite human, it's just so frustrating not being able to do something dramatic and impressive to give body to such frustrations. See, in my mind's eye, I imagined how satsifying it would be to be a rhinoceros, get upset, and trample whatever it is that ticks you off. I would have given anything to be able to trample those contemptible fries right then. Just kick up some dust, demolish them with 3,000 lbs of preggo fury, and snort with disdain at the memory of their mediocrity.
Wouldn't that be great?
And pregnant rhinos (as opposed to pregnant humans who yell at their food) can pretty much get away with anything without sideways glances from others. Something makes her mad, she tramples it, and everyone's like, "Well, whattya expect? You shouldn't tick off a pregnant rhino."
The real--and only--moral of this story is that you need to pray for my dear, dear husband...
...Because, while I have yet to trample anyone/anything around here, I suspect that some days it would be nice for him if he could keep me in a walled enclosure, or at the very least holster some tranquilizer darts in the event that one day my fries have too much cheese on one side, or my pants are too tight, or my socks are uncomfy, etc.