Week 21.

This week Wifey and I encountered a snag that none of the “pregnancy experts” had covered: what happens to a woman in her fifth month of pregnancy when she’s got a full-time job and her husband – usually a well-oiled machine of domesticity – gets the flu and reverts to a mewling infant?

Those Maternal instincts kick in a few months early is what happens. To my immense relief – yet even greater shame – I’ve spent most of the past week being waited on hand and foot by a pregnant lady. She’s got a very full plate at work, a rapidly growing belly, and a somewhat limited range of motion. Yet she somehow managed to make me chicken soup from scratch, take me to the hospital when it got scary, and be generally far more loving than a whiney little bitch like myself deserved.

Even – or perhaps especially – when I began to snore.

Not that I was at all conscious of the late-night encounter, but I’m imagining it went something like this:

The scene is gently backlit by moonlight creeping in the window on Wifey’s side of the bed.

Me: snoring.

Wifey: nudge.

Me: still snoring…

Wifey: HARD nudge.

Me: still snoring (loudly).


Me: ….

The moonlight outlines a silhouette of her perfectly protruding baby bump as she slowly maneuvers herself out of bed. It also illuminates the scowl of fury on her porcelain features.  

Five hours later: 

Early morning light shines on a half-empty bed. From a large form huddled under the covers comes the unmistakable sound of a freight train barreling down the tracks. 

On the couch in the adjacent room, a much smaller form lies, curled around a body pillow, not-quite-asleep. A close-up of her rosy lips as she softly whispers:  

“Enough of this shit already….. I want my fucking husband back.”

This woman is way too good for me.

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