Preggie rage
One of the strangest 'symptoms' of my pregnancy has been my willingness to speak my mind. No comments from the peanut gallery, please; I admit I have my opinions, but I usually share them only with those who already know - and hopefully love - me. Maybe it is some sort of sense that the world is filled with crazy people and I don't want our child exposed to such selfishness, materialism, crassness, or other forms of nonsense, but I find myself speaking up more often, sometimes when I least expect it.
Admittedly, the first incident I probably would have spoken up anyway. We were at the George C. Reifel Migratory Bird Sanctuary with Werner's parents, on a weekday morning in April. The parking lot was as good as empty. A woman drove in and apparently decided that her minivan had to be parked right there, even though a pair of mallards were happily snoozing in her path. She honked. They stayed put. She ran over them. You might know I have a real soft spot for mallards, and to be fair I quite likely would have lost control of my emotions even if I had not been overrun with emotions. But there was no way I could have stopped myself this time. Before I knew it, I was at the driver's open window and asking what the h*** she was doing. Her response: "They usually move". Feeble, pathetic, inexcusable. She ran over a pair of ducks in a bird sanctuary!! I ran to the bathroom, and when I came back out, one of the sanctuary's staff members was checking out the ducks. The male was unharmed, but the female had been injured and was having a hard time moving. The tears came and I lost what little control remained of my emotions.
Another incident: this time of year I enjoy visiting the UBC Farm Markets on Saturday mornings. The freshest produce to be had anywhere in the city, often of unusual or heritage varieties, and all grown to organic specifications. Because the produce for sale at the farm is grown right there, quantities are limited and often sell out very quickly. I've started going in advance of the 9:00 am opening, and still find myself at the end of a long - and ever-growing - queue. On this particular morning, I was hoping to get three particular items: strawberries (I was deep into jam- and pie-making), rhubarb (also for jams and pies), and eggs. As I stood in line, I kept a nervous eye on the chalkboard where the sold-out items are recorded. I got to the strawberries and rhubarb and with relief gathered up what I needed. I was a few steps away from the eggs, but didn't want to skip ahead of anyone, especially since I had overheard that the woman in front of me wanted a dozen eggs, too. After a few minutes, I was finally close enough to have my chance. I stepped up to the basket with the egg cartons - and a young woman grabbed the last dozen. I didn't see where she had come from, so I counted my losses and stepped back to my spot in line. A few minutes later, I saw where this person was in line - at the very back! She had come to the market and, rather than waiting her turn to get to the offerings, had walked right up to the eggs, grabbed my carton, went behind me to get strawberries (she got one of the last boxes, of course), and only then joined the queue, about 20 people behind me. The woman in front of me and the man behind me both saw what happened, and encouraged me to mention something to the farm staff, which I did. One of the other staff members said that she had a dozen eggs set aside for herself and I could have them, but I refused her very kind offer on the grounds that it would be no better than what this other person had done. Once I had finally paid (more than an hour after I had arrived - and trust me, that is a long long time for a pregnant woman with sore feet to stand in line!), I started to walk back to the car. Before I knew it, my feet had taken me to where this woman now stood (right between where the berries and eggs had been, as it happened), and my mouth had started talking. I told her that I had waited in line a good long time for my turn, and she had effectively snatched those eggs right out of my hands. She made a weak gesture of handing me the eggs, but of course I'd already waited a half hour or more to pay and it really was an example of too little, too late.
And in the last week I've witnessed a frightening number of stupid-driver-instances. In barely 24 hours, I saw two transit busses run red lights. Not lights that were yellow-almost-red, but lights that had already changed. In one instance, I was waiting to turn left at a light not far from our house; I got the advanced green, but for some reason hesitated. Good thing I did, because a bus came through at full speed ahead, even though I already had the green light. The driver didn't even give a warning honk of the horn. Had I not hesitated, the bus would have struck square on the driver's side, squashing me, kleines Bärchen, and the car. A day or two later, Werner and I were on our way to a friend's home. Stopped at a light, I was in the middle of telling him that earlier that day a cyclist almost ran into the car while I was waiting to turn right. (I had the light, the cyclist, approaching from the left, did not.) As I was telling him this, we felt a thud against our stopped car. Yup, a cyclist had plowed into us. And then had the nerve to shout obscenities at us!!
So by Friday afternoon I was a little on edge. By the time I was tailgated by a group of joy-riding kids, my patience was long shot. They were so close to me that I couldn't see the grille of the car in which they were riding - but I could see their facial expressions. It was rush hour. I couldn't go any faster, and there was no way for me to get to another lane for quite some time. Once I finally did, I avoided looking towards them as they drove past, but did hear them yelling something or other at me. (Nothing polite or complimentary, I'm sure.) After getting across the Knight Street Bridge, I saw them take the Bridgeport west exit, and I took the Bridgeport east exit. Once I could finally pull over, I decided to call the police. I was so rattled by the experience - this really wasn't an honest mistake or even just a stupid move, it was dangerously agressive driving. I was a bit nervous about calling the police, but they took my complain seriously, and while I was waiting to pay at Ikea, my cell phone rang - a constable with the RCMP was calling back to review what had happened, because he would be paying a visit to the owner of the car. (Perhaps it helped that street racing has been a serious and growing concern in Richmond.)
Preggie rage sometimes feels a bit liberating, but on the other hand, I just wish there were fewer stupid and malicious people in the world. I think all of this really comes from a deep-seated, instinctual fear regarding the kind of world into which das kleine Bärchen will be born. I imagine this protective mother instinct will only sharpen as Bärchen makes his or her way into this world.
Admittedly, the first incident I probably would have spoken up anyway. We were at the George C. Reifel Migratory Bird Sanctuary with Werner's parents, on a weekday morning in April. The parking lot was as good as empty. A woman drove in and apparently decided that her minivan had to be parked right there, even though a pair of mallards were happily snoozing in her path. She honked. They stayed put. She ran over them. You might know I have a real soft spot for mallards, and to be fair I quite likely would have lost control of my emotions even if I had not been overrun with emotions. But there was no way I could have stopped myself this time. Before I knew it, I was at the driver's open window and asking what the h*** she was doing. Her response: "They usually move". Feeble, pathetic, inexcusable. She ran over a pair of ducks in a bird sanctuary!! I ran to the bathroom, and when I came back out, one of the sanctuary's staff members was checking out the ducks. The male was unharmed, but the female had been injured and was having a hard time moving. The tears came and I lost what little control remained of my emotions.
Another incident: this time of year I enjoy visiting the UBC Farm Markets on Saturday mornings. The freshest produce to be had anywhere in the city, often of unusual or heritage varieties, and all grown to organic specifications. Because the produce for sale at the farm is grown right there, quantities are limited and often sell out very quickly. I've started going in advance of the 9:00 am opening, and still find myself at the end of a long - and ever-growing - queue. On this particular morning, I was hoping to get three particular items: strawberries (I was deep into jam- and pie-making), rhubarb (also for jams and pies), and eggs. As I stood in line, I kept a nervous eye on the chalkboard where the sold-out items are recorded. I got to the strawberries and rhubarb and with relief gathered up what I needed. I was a few steps away from the eggs, but didn't want to skip ahead of anyone, especially since I had overheard that the woman in front of me wanted a dozen eggs, too. After a few minutes, I was finally close enough to have my chance. I stepped up to the basket with the egg cartons - and a young woman grabbed the last dozen. I didn't see where she had come from, so I counted my losses and stepped back to my spot in line. A few minutes later, I saw where this person was in line - at the very back! She had come to the market and, rather than waiting her turn to get to the offerings, had walked right up to the eggs, grabbed my carton, went behind me to get strawberries (she got one of the last boxes, of course), and only then joined the queue, about 20 people behind me. The woman in front of me and the man behind me both saw what happened, and encouraged me to mention something to the farm staff, which I did. One of the other staff members said that she had a dozen eggs set aside for herself and I could have them, but I refused her very kind offer on the grounds that it would be no better than what this other person had done. Once I had finally paid (more than an hour after I had arrived - and trust me, that is a long long time for a pregnant woman with sore feet to stand in line!), I started to walk back to the car. Before I knew it, my feet had taken me to where this woman now stood (right between where the berries and eggs had been, as it happened), and my mouth had started talking. I told her that I had waited in line a good long time for my turn, and she had effectively snatched those eggs right out of my hands. She made a weak gesture of handing me the eggs, but of course I'd already waited a half hour or more to pay and it really was an example of too little, too late.
And in the last week I've witnessed a frightening number of stupid-driver-instances. In barely 24 hours, I saw two transit busses run red lights. Not lights that were yellow-almost-red, but lights that had already changed. In one instance, I was waiting to turn left at a light not far from our house; I got the advanced green, but for some reason hesitated. Good thing I did, because a bus came through at full speed ahead, even though I already had the green light. The driver didn't even give a warning honk of the horn. Had I not hesitated, the bus would have struck square on the driver's side, squashing me, kleines Bärchen, and the car. A day or two later, Werner and I were on our way to a friend's home. Stopped at a light, I was in the middle of telling him that earlier that day a cyclist almost ran into the car while I was waiting to turn right. (I had the light, the cyclist, approaching from the left, did not.) As I was telling him this, we felt a thud against our stopped car. Yup, a cyclist had plowed into us. And then had the nerve to shout obscenities at us!!
So by Friday afternoon I was a little on edge. By the time I was tailgated by a group of joy-riding kids, my patience was long shot. They were so close to me that I couldn't see the grille of the car in which they were riding - but I could see their facial expressions. It was rush hour. I couldn't go any faster, and there was no way for me to get to another lane for quite some time. Once I finally did, I avoided looking towards them as they drove past, but did hear them yelling something or other at me. (Nothing polite or complimentary, I'm sure.) After getting across the Knight Street Bridge, I saw them take the Bridgeport west exit, and I took the Bridgeport east exit. Once I could finally pull over, I decided to call the police. I was so rattled by the experience - this really wasn't an honest mistake or even just a stupid move, it was dangerously agressive driving. I was a bit nervous about calling the police, but they took my complain seriously, and while I was waiting to pay at Ikea, my cell phone rang - a constable with the RCMP was calling back to review what had happened, because he would be paying a visit to the owner of the car. (Perhaps it helped that street racing has been a serious and growing concern in Richmond.)
Preggie rage sometimes feels a bit liberating, but on the other hand, I just wish there were fewer stupid and malicious people in the world. I think all of this really comes from a deep-seated, instinctual fear regarding the kind of world into which das kleine Bärchen will be born. I imagine this protective mother instinct will only sharpen as Bärchen makes his or her way into this world.
posted by Melanie A at 5:50 p.m.
1 Comments:
Oh, I hear you completely on preggie rage.
Working in an all-male office while expecting my first cranked it up in me. I realised I could not expect to raise a child - boy or girl - to rise above nasty crude sexism and jocular racism if I was constantly seen to be holding my tongue. So I stopped holding it. One of my co-workers said, "you know, you've gotten a lot b*tchier since getting pregnant," to which I replied, "no, I've just stopped supressing it to spare your feelings."
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