Forgive me for all the clichés that are about to ensue.
As has often been remarked, nobody is ever “just a little bit pregnant;” this baby thing is all or nothing. Contrary to popular belief, there’s very little about the process that is gradual, other than the growth of the bump itself. In some cases – like ours – even that seems to happen rather quickly.
I’m pretty sure I’m going to get myself into a whole lot of trouble with this one, but there are some things that all fathers-to-be have in common. It’s do or die out there, after all – you either develop a whole new kind of patience, or a bunch of new kinks in the the neck from being forced to crash on the couch due to a lack thereof.
What I’m really talking about here, of course, is precisely what all men are instructed to never, under any circumstances refer to within the hearing of their female partner: the monthly – or in this case rather longer term – affects of their crazy, out-of-control hormones.
So, at risk of eternal damnation, but on behalf of fathers-to-be around the world, I’m going to just go ahead and say it, so that we can all pretend we’ve gotten it out of our systems:
“I’m sorry (first name here), I love you like crazy, and I can’t thank you enough for carrying our child. I know it takes a lot out of you. But for God’s sake, darling – some of the shit you’re trying to pull on me here is fucking ridiculous.”
(Now, don’t you feel a little better?)
I mean, just so you comprehend the extent of the madness at hand: the lovely, goddess-of-a-woman who I am blessed to share my life with said no to bacon this weekend. Bacon, I tell you! This, the morning after ripping me a new one for daring to suggest that she perhaps allow herself to breathe for a moment and digest the changes occurring in our lives, by interjecting a lighthearted novel into the growing pile of pregnancy literature on the coffee table.
Now, I consider myself to be a pretty damn supportive husband. One of the better ones, even. I’m happy to run any errand, to go just about anywhere to track down just about any kind of random-ass food that Wifey is craving, as long as we can afford it. Or to avoid using just about any ingredient when I cook, even if the blacklist changes from day to day and is impossible to keep track of. (Hour to hour?)
However, just because I’m not growing a person doesn’t make me any less human. So don’t you treat me like I am, meanie! Ha. So there. Take that.
Oh shit, look at the time. It’s getting late, and I’ve got this shopping list to take care of. Not to mention those new nursing bras I said I’d pick up for her. I’ve gotta get out of here. Later, boys.