The Crying Game

(Hormonal Blues)

I know I’m about to get my period every month when I’m driving alone in my car, hear a sad song on the radio, and burst into tears. It’s usually some song by Barry Manilow or any Carpenters’ song. Well, when you’re pregnant you don’t need a song to come on the radio to make you cry. You just need to hear a traffic report and the floodgates will open.

Now, I’m not talking about postpartum: That’s in book two . . . heh heh heh. And I’m not talking about Psycho Chick (she’s another story; see page 15). This is about all those tears shed while your bun is still in the proverbial oven. There were times I honestly thought I was going to get completely dehydrated because I would cry for days. Looking back I giggle at how emotional we women get. But those damn hormones really get the best of us. And forget about going to the movies. Even comedies made me sob.

Case in point: I was pregnant when Moulin Rouge came out, and I decided to treat myself to a little movie and popcorn. The big mistake here was going by myself. I cried so hard in the theater that strangers were coming up to me and asking if I was hurt. As people filed out, I hid on the ground because I couldn’t control my sobbing. (Wait, it gets worse.) Once everyone had left, I ran to my car and pulled away. Seconds later I pulled over because I couldn’t drive. I was sobbing so hard I began to hyperventilate. Now, if you haven’t seen the movie you are probably thinking, “Damn, this must be a good flick.” Well, it is a great movie, but when you’re pregnant The Wizard of Oz would do the same thing. Hard-won advice: Take a friend with you to the movies when you’re pregnant. At least you can sob on her shoulder and she can drive you home.

And here’s another good piece of advice: DO NOT watch the news. Hearing about the destruction of our world does not make a woman bringing a child into it very happy. I cried without provocation. The nightly news just added fuel to the fire. Oh, and those damn baby shows. The sweet ones are good to watch (then the tears are tears of happiness), but I seemed to constantly get sucked into the ones about preemie babies needing emergency surgery. My husband would walk into the room and see my big pregnant body sobbing in front of the television and would force me to change the channel. Hard as it was to leave those little ones on the operating table, I’m grateful he yanked me out of my movie-of-the-week-induced downward spiral.

Sometimes you have no idea why you’re crying. I remember sitting on the sofa watching a piece of lint roll by and I burst into tears. My husband kept asking me what was wrong, and I remember trying to think of why I was crying, but there wasn’t a reason. Crying for no reason just didn’t compute for him, so finally I would just make up something, as in, “I’m crying because you forgot to take the garbage out.” A little cruel, sure. But a reason is something a man can get his head around. Offer him a reason and you get a twofer: You will get your husband off your back, and as in my case, it’ll ensure that the garbage gets taken out.