Dear Santa: Bring Me Some Metamucil

Dear Santa: Bring Me Some Metamucil

Dear Santa Mrsmommymack.com

So, being pregnant with twins AND in my first trimester right up until the holidays is quite fun. Nothing like double the feeling of: nausea, heartburn, pure, bone-numbing exhaustion and raw, unedited emotion just in time to see your entire family.

I’ve harnessed this tornado of emotional and physical pain into a letter to my man, Santa Claus. Please, I’ve been remotely good? I am begging you.

  1. So much poop. As I have told everyone, including my hairdresser and someone I scared by the cucumbers at the store, I have to poop. No, I NEED to poop. Being pregnant slows all trains to Poopsville down to a crawl and the exit is fruitless at best. I want an ate-Taco-Bell-all-night-and-drowned-it-with-tequila sized poop. So many things are happening internally right now, but poop is not one of them.
  2. A longer fuse. I have noticed my husband’s white-eyed, twitchy glances towards me when I enter a room. This is similar to a rabbit in a bush next to 5,000 foxes. He is afraid and I don’t blame him. The rage in me is hideous. Out of dish soap? I’m going to lose it. Favorite yoga pants are dirty? Watch the fuck out. Scandal is on Thanksgiving hiatus and I was unaware? SWAT team, now.
  3. The ability to puke until my eyes bleed, then eat until I cry. This might be a tall order. But, daily I just wish I could retch this nausea completely gone and then stuff my mouth, ears, eyes, etc with egg rolls. Can’t this be a thing?
  4. A dishwasher. Sure, this is a tangible object. However, I do need to voice that it is December 1st and I am still working through the casserole dishes from Thanksgiving. Scraping congealed, slightly burnt (sorry, Mom) green bean casserole for hours while simultaneously dry heaving should be sent to Guantanamo as a new torture strategy.
  5. So many tissues. Kleenex is obsolete in my house due to the fact that I cried for four hours this week after my husband asked me to fold some laundry.
  6. A vice. Booze? Nope. Trampolines? Na-da. Sushi? Out of the question. Cigarettes? This isn’t Mad Men. What is a pregnant woman to do if she can’t drink wine and smoke at the trampoline sushi bar? How am I supposed to “celebrate” the upcoming Armageddon of having four kids under five?!
  7. An internet filter. When I’m pregnant, I have an incredibly hard time not wanting to kill everyone on the internet. I will write seething letters of semi-hatred to people I would normally ignore. I spent way too many hours (or maybe NOT ENOUGH!? See, there I go again.) one night hating the woman who was photoed duct taping her sweet, helpless chocolate lab’s mouth shut.
  8. More time. Santa, let’s just cut to the chase. Shouldn’t you be pregnant for 18 months with twins? I mean, I’m no scientist, but this shit makes sense. I’m not ready. HOW IS THIS GOING TO WORK?!

So, Santa, I will be waiting patiently at about one minute past minute on Christmas morning for your arrival. I will be the one crying on the toilet in dirty pajamas.

 

-Mrs. Mommy Mack.

 

 

2 thoughts on “Dear Santa: Bring Me Some Metamucil

  1. When you get that incredible hemmroid inducing poop fest it will be glorious my friend! And when we pop this magical little sleep takers from our lady bits I suggest a glass of moscato. My doctor has approved of this method but only if I go all natural. I’ve already stopped shaving. I hope she’s impressed.

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