For most of my elementary years I had this one Bus Driver. Her name was something along the lines or Diana or Tracy or Nancy. She was really cool. Really cool until she got pregnant, and to my young and innocent mind she was more or less a bunny rabbit. (Pot calling the kettle black, whatevs.) When she was not pregnant she was simply a highlighted haired, slim lady with crayolaed pictures of her favorite little riders and a love note from her husband hanging on the dash. When she was pregnant, she really turned into a downright monster. We'd literally tiptoe on the bus. If we made it on the bus, anyway. Because she was not unknown to drive right past you, jsut for kicks or some authority, I'm assuming. Not pregnant, on holidays she would give us our favorite candies and erasers and maybe a construction papered craft that she'd done the night before. When she was pregnant we would tiptoe on the bus and before even making it to the second step she would bark, "DIABETES OR ALLERGIES?" then toss a bag of candy corn at us.
After her maternity leave she would come back radiant and beaming, showing us new picture of her ugly (you know they are) newborn. She would practically hand cigars out to the boys. It was very jarring for us, and took us the full rest of the year to recover and realize she was not a maniacal monster. But then every fall we'd come back and she'd announce the dreadful-to-us news: she was pregnant. Again.
It hit me like a mac truck today, that I am Tracy, Diana, Nancy. I have rage that cannot be tamed. Take, for example, yesterday, my round four to get a license at the dmv. By round four red flags should probably be going up in NYS with quotes like, "slow!" "does not respond well to direction!" "does not read direction!" "unworthy of driving if she can't do this right!" Instead, after a long line and my kids running in and out of rooms, the lady at the desk calmly told me that my proof of address didn't qualify because it's an insurance bill. Red pen circling, "it's right here under the list of unacceptable." I could've climbed over the counter and strangled her with my own hands. I understand this is irrational and unreasonable, but hormones are hormones and I was seeing red. RED.
Or, take for example today, when my washing machine broke for the second time in 6 weeks. I nearly fell on the floor weeping. I called service and they told me that they could come on Friday. Friday? I have clothes that are locked in my washer, my husband WORKS THERE and this just happened a few weeks ago. Friday my ass, ma'am. Again, I realized this was irrational and the whole shebang, but my rage cup was overfloweth. At least today I channeled my adrenaline into efficiency and sorted all of my laundry into garbage bags and brought it to the local laundromat. (That's what she said.) SIXTEEN loads I got done in two hours. Frankly, I don't even know why I own a da*n washing machine.
So friends, if you, too ever run into a Tracy, Nancy, Diana, don't judge, don't hate, don't think they are angry because they're pregnant, because they're not. You'll just never know when it's going to hit them (or you). It may be in a scrub store, (Mr Incredible needs medical scrubs, what can I say?) when you or her are buying scrubs, maybe when you're even buying scrubs online. YOu just don't know. Just the progesterone, OH! the progesterone. It's a downright drug. It basically causes severe narcolepsy, rage and hunger. All at once. All day, for approximately 13 weeks. Don't hate, don't love, just give me my way then get out of the way.