A Midsummer Night's Retarded Husband, or, HCG Is A Helluva Drug, or, Sandy Made Me Write This

So these are some of the magical changes that pregnancy hormones have caused in Greta:

- Aversion to most foods -- breakfast cereal is the staple, and even that is reluctantly consumed
- Constipation
- Fatigue -- she sleeps ten to eleven hours a night, and is tired the rest of the time
- Hellacious flatulence -- and I mean vile. Like mustard gas. Satan himself doesn't fart like this.
- Irritability and sensitivity -- a couple of weeks ago, she burst into tears of rage when I gave her food that was too hot.

Obviously, this has been much more unpleasant for her than it has been for me ... it's just been difficult for me to remember that. As a mnemonic, I've been trying to visualize the hormones raging through her body as tiny, evil clowns, screaming with laughter as they zoom through her bloodstream.

I forgot to rely upon this mnemonic one night recently, when Greta pulled her hair back into a tight, folded-over ponytail. Watching her do this, I said to her contemplatively, "I don't like your hair like that." Before I could continue, "... all pulled back tight like that," she hit me in the side of the head with a bag full of oranges. No, not really -- but despite the lack of physical violence, it sort of felt that way. By the time she was done expressing her displeasure at my comment, I was sitting speechless on the couch, stunned and fuming. I had to go take a long walk to cool off, and we didn't make up until the next morning. I hate it when that happens.

The main lesson I learned: I am an idiot. First of all, it's foolish of me to take such outbursts personally; I must remember that my wife has been kidnapped by the HCG Faeries and replaced with a changeling.

Secondly, there is no doubt Greta's lot is much worse than mine (wherever she is ). Here's what pregnancy seems to be like for a woman: first you lose your mind for a few months, then you swell up like a biscuit in a hot oven, and finally you have to pass a bowling-ball-sized human through the most sensitive part of your anatomy. After which, a tiny, insatiable parasite latches on to another very sensitive part of your anatomy every two hours for many interminable months. My point is: compared to living with pregnancy, living with a pregnant person is nothing.

Actually, I'm pleased to report that Greta has slowly returned over the past week -- right on schedule. Tonight she was able to eat two black-bean-and-guacamole tacos and a piece of chocolate-covered marzipan. And she's a little sweeter and more patient every day.

I'm also pleased, if a little freaked out, to learn that this is Midsummer Eve -- when I started in on the Shakespeare references above, I had no idea!

I hear some laughter and door-slamming going on in our hallway ... perhaps it's just the pothead kid next door having some friends over ... or perhaps there is "dancing or leaping or diabolical chants" out there, as Saint Eligius promises. (By the way, how is it that when the devout issue their sternest warnings against sin, they always seem to actually be providing extraordinarily effective advertisements for the behavior they condemn?)