Dear Pregnant Lady,
I must say I don't like you. I don't like the way you treat my child turning into some roaring woman barking commands at Abigail like she was a programmed robot. I know she doesn't follow through all that well and that she is easily distracted and has a tendency to dwaddle, but the tone you use is awful. I don't like the way you tick of criticisms of the people I love--Abigail, Chris, George--or the random stranger when your out and about. There is no reason to yell at other drivers or to silently deride the obese man in Target for his existence. How ridiculous you are. I don't like the way you move, slow and sore. Cumbersomely completing tasks, allowing shoveling snow to cause days of aches.
You claim to know Christ, to have asked Him into your heart. You claim to be a new creature in that relationship. You claim to have given the Holy Spirit lordship over your life. You claim sanity. Yet here I am writing to you, crazy pregnant lady. Asking you to relieve yourself of this tyrannical hold you have over reality, skewing it to justify your angry, exhausted, frustrated, overwhelmed attitude. You should not be in control of anything! And the life of my child should not be colored by the condition of your heart. It is time for you to retire.
Non-pregnant Lady Trapped
PS. I should remind you, Pregnant Lady, that your days are growing short. I will return! Tell my family if you have any mercy.