Savannah SMASH!

The other day, I was cleaning the kitchen. And while putting away a cookie sheet in the under-the-oven storage, the drawer fell off its track. I picked it up and put it back. It fell off again. I took the drawer totally out and set it back on the track. I slid it back in. It promptly fell off. At which I point I swore something unrepeatable at the top of my lungs and kicked the stupid drawer as hard as I could.

The cat looked at me like I was nuts.

When TJ came home, he said, "Ah... so I see you've discovered that drawer has problems." I was maybe still foaming at the mouth.

"I kicked it," I admitted. "It didn't really help."

He nodded wisely, and slipped it back onto its track.

The next day, after being irritated by a coworker for maybe six hours on end, I ended up flipping out on both my husband and another coworker. "I AM NOT THE IT DEPARTMENT!" I hissed at him. "Stop telling me your problems!" And he just stared at me, like I'd suddenly turned green.

Which of course, I had. The Hulk has nothing on pregnancy rage.

I'm blaming most of it on Clark, and the extra burst of testosterone I'm sure I've picked up from his little blood stream.

Even the science is the same -- just like our Dr. Banner, I too have to watch my heartbeat. If it gets too high, it can divert blood from the baby. I actually think my level is a bit lower than his -- 140 versus 160. But I feel like my heart is racing all the time. I can feel it thumping away in my chest, shoving a few extra liters of blood through my system at all hours of the night. I'm constantly trying to deepen my breathing, slow my pulse, think happy thoughts.

And then my boss gives me needless attitude, or annoying coworker asks me the same question for the millionth time, and the monster is there.

Thankfully, I have been mostly successful so far in diverting my rage to inanimate objects -- the oven drawer, my computer, Photoshop (which I quite loudly told to f'off a couple days ago ... thankfully, after hours). And I've been pretty good about apologizing quickly to the poor souls who happened to be standing there when the cork finally blew. Unfortunately, that's often my husband.

He's been a real trooper about this whole thing.

And hopefully when the baby is born, the hormone-induced rage will subside. If not, hey, I figure that's a pretty damn good superpower to have for a toddler. Especially if his dad backs me up.

"Don't make mom angry, Clark. ... You wouldn't like her when she's angry."