How a Crazy Woman Knows She's Loved

Most of the time I love being pregnant. I'm over the moon about it. After all, it's not like this happened accidentally for us. We chased after it, and we got it! And usually I'm super grateful. But today I cried. I mean an ugly, hyperventilating kind of cry.

I'm pretty sure losing my mind has to do with being hormonal, but it also has to do with the fact that my underwear suddenly don't fit. That put me in a bad mood this morning to begin with. And the fact that after coming home from our weekend getaway all of my maternity pants are dirty. So I pretty much had nothing to wear. Standing in my closet in my ill-fitting underwear and trying to determine what I could possibly clothe myself in, I started feeling the low rumblings of angry discord somewhere in the pit of my soul, but I plowed forward. Maybe that green dress of mine would work. It's comfortable and casual enough for every day. But footwear...that was a problem.

Currently I have three pairs of shoes that fit. Lace up tennies (Thank the Lord for laces!), ankle boots (that I can get into most days), and knee high dress boots that I bought two sizes bigger than usual to hide the cankles pregnancy has blessed me with. None of these options were inspired.

Then I spied them in the dark corner of my closet: My tan leather and suede cowboy boots I've had since college. I could probably make them work with the dress in an artsy sort of way. So I put on the green dress. I quickly realized, however, that what worked in month three looks rather ridiculous in month 6. That angry discord began to rise as I yanked it off.

Okay...What about my new heather grey maternity dress? That could work, and probably would look better with the boots anyway. Who cares if I wear it every week? It's a no failer. At least for now...Taking a look in the mirror I concluded that it would do.

Finally it was time for the boots. Except as I pushed my giant troll feet into them, it began to be apparent that they might not--NO WAY! This was not happening. I stood up, looped my swollen fingers through the leather pull straps and yanked, and yanked, and stomped, and yanked again. Of course I had to be careful of my right wrist which has developed carple-tunnel-like symptoms because of the MASSIVE AMOUNTS OF WATER THAT I AM RETAINING!!! However, despite the obstacles, and thanks to the stomping and yanking, I finally forced my way into them... only to find the pinching and constriction unbearable.

That's when I lost my mind. I yelled and stomped, trying desperately to get the thing off, and began blubbering. That's what Mr. Wicke found when he ran up the stairs thinking I had possibly fallen down. I threw myself into the rocking chair, weeping and cursing my enormous troll feet, and then, thanks to my current limited lung capacity I found myself unable to catch my breath.

It's all too humiliating to recall. I am fully aware that I was ridiculous. I was aware as it was happening that I was ridiculous. And it's even more humiliating to think that someone other than God witnessed it. What was poor Mr. Wicke supposed to do with all that crazed, hormonal, emotion?

You know what he did? He petted my head, and then gently tried to remove the offending boots...eventually he had to muscle them off, but I appreciated the initial gentle effort. Then he told me to lie down and get some rest. He even offered to pick me up some new underwear today. And you know what else? I'll bet he'll never mention it again. Now that is love.