When gremlins strike

Fifteen weeks of development.  Fifteen weeks.  Something to celebrate?  Not this time.

For the past week, I've been having the dreaded pregnant headaches.  I had a few when Amos was snugged into my belly, but these are more frequent and achy.  It truly feels like Marmot is stabbing me in the skull.  I imagine a little softball-sized baby standing over me with an icepick, not unlike the gremlin in Twilight Zone: The Movie that terrorizes John Lithgow on the wing of the plane. 

Stabby stab stab goes the little softball-sized gremlin, while I stare in horror from seat 13A.

For that reason, I'm a little (okay, a lot) cranky when the headaches strike.  I've missed some great outings because of them.  I drape myself across the couch with a hand over my forehead in very much a "woe is me" kind of way.  Noise, any noise, yes, even that one you are making right now over there SO STOP IT RIGHT NOW!, is bothersome.  Daylong headaches:  they should be a defense in murder trials.

A tiny dose of Tylenol and a wee dram of coffee seem to help, but I'm not willing to go beyond that, as I'll be tarred and feathered by the parenting community and pointed at menacingly by the uterus cops for poisoning the gremlin that is stabbing me in the brain.  It's really unfair, this pregnant business.  Napping all day in a comatose manner seems to be the only cure.

So, anyhoo, another one struck me today.  After taking my standard "woe is me" position, Amos decided to go about his usual toddler business with the noise and the movement and the clanging and the banging and the stomping and the general madness.  I wasn't a happy camper.  I said various things that I'm not proud of, such as, "Get off this couch!  Go away!  Leave!  ARGH!"  Phil, being the wondrous man that he is, decided to take Amos down to the basement, where Amos has a carpet-padded dungeon of delights filled with toys and plenty of room to run around like a madman.

I was grateful, mind you, but the gremlin was making me do and say things that were not under my jurisdiction.  Amos was still running around up here and causing me stress, so I said, "Just GO AWAY!"  

I immediately felt bad.  Really bad.

Then Amos said, "Okay, I'm going away now," in just about the cutest, most mother-killing voice I've ever heard.  I died on the spot.

After recovering from my death, I asked Amos to come over.  I apologized and asked for a kiss.  He giggled and whispered, "Heheh, okay," and planted one on me.  "I'm going to the basement!"  And off he went to have fun in the toddler dungeon.

I called after him, "Have fun!"  Then I rolled back into "woe is me" to lament about my bad mothering.  He didn't seem affected at all, but I added one check mark to the imaginary Wall of Parenting Shame that stands beside me.

Perhaps if I confess these times that I take out headaches and aggravations on my son, then I won't progress to Defcon Mommy Dearest stage.  I won't end up in the garden at 3am, slicing the roses off of their stems while Amos watches in horror.  I won't scream, "NO MORE WIRE HANGERS!!" or give his gifts to orphans while I smear lopsided lipstick across my face.


He is likely, however, to walk around our home saying, "I know how to make drinks for all my uncles."  That one is NOT my fault.  Blame it on Phil for buying me a gag set of "childrens' books" entitled such things as "Baby Mix Me a Drink."  Amos already knows how to make a gimlet, an old-fashioned, and something he calls a mardardita in da blender.

Somewhere, Joan Crawford is smiling fondly at us.