UP THE DUFF Week 28: How to deal with a batshit crazy pregnant woman.

I’m feeling particularly fragile at the moment. Our house is a bomb site, we’re bouncing from hotel to Air B’n’B accommodation (and the way our funds are going, park benches are starting to look pretty damn appealing) and I’m conscious, as the days go on, that the chicklet is a) not very far away and b) could well come early, if he got it into his little head to truly upset the apple cart.

So, when I get a little anxious – as I am wont to do – I try to deal with it myself. And if I can’t, I force Mr Chick to deal with it, even though he has been working ridiculous hours and overnight shifts and is basically more deranged and tired than I have ever seen him. Even so, he has never once said, ‘Babe, not now’ when I am having one of my motherhood / labour / birth / bringing the chicklet home freak-outs. Here are snippets of our conversations. Just for this week.

Me: “The builder told me he needs another $2000 we don’t have for [insert innocuous reno cost here].”
Mr Chick: “I think we probably need that. Don’t worry, we’ll sort it out. The house is going to look great when it’s done. Cup of tea?”

Me (tearfully): “According to my Period Tracker app there are only 84 days until the chicklet arrives. 84 DAYS! How the hell am I going to get this baby out? Am I going to be okay? What if I die? Will you promise to stay up at my face and not peek at the business end? And if they try to bring a mirror in like they did when my niece was born will you tell them NO MIRRORS and that we are fine not seeing whatever is going on down there? Even though I don’t have a birth plan and probably won’t write one? Or should I write one? HOLY FLIPPING MOTHER OF GOD!”
Mr Chick: “You will be fine. I will be right there with you the whole entire time. You tell me what you need, and I will get it for you. There will be no mirrors. I’ll be talking to all the midwives and making decisions if you can’t and it’s all going to be okay so try not to think about it. Cup of tea?”

Me (hysterically): “Do you think the chicklet will be a chilled-out baby? Or is he feeding on the chronic stress you and I are both under? What were we thinking doing a renovation and having to move out three months before he’s born? Am I working too hard? You’re definitely working too hard. Should I be meditating more? Is once a week enough? What are we going to do if we bring the chicklet home and he doesn’t stop crying for six months? How will we cope with the stress?”
Mr Chick: “So he cries for six months. We’ll be fine, and we’ll cope. You and I have always thrived on stress and we’ll just take it one day at a time. Cup of tea?”

I swear the man has been reading the How To Deal With Your Batshit Crazy Pregnant Wife book. If such a book exists. If not, I might write it. It’s not like I have enough to do or anything.

Is all this drama normal for the last 3 months? Please tell me you were feeling similarly nuts. I’m considering carting myself off to the funny farm.