Maybe they’re swollen, I can’t tell.
They throb and twitch though and I freaking hate it.
Ugh, ever since my wife, Monica, got pregnant earlier this summer I have had to suffer through a whole bunch of afflictions and strange new symptoms right along side of her.
It is such a pain in the butt, people. Not to mention my feet hurt from chasing the kids all over the house while my pregnant wife lies in bed trying to convince herself not to hurl.
And to be honest, I think it’s a little unfair. Yes, of course I know she is the one growing the baby in her precious womb and all that…blah-blah-blah.
But let’s not overlook the fact that I’m suffering a hell of a lot and enduring more than a few rough patches during this pregnancy too.
What the hell am I talking about?
Well, okay. Take for example the fact that Monica can’t really keep much food down because of her nasty morning sickness, so she ends up eating a lot of cheese quesadillas because:
a) they are one of the few foods she seems able to digest
b) they are easy to make when massive hunger pangs strike her like bolts of lightning off Thor’s hammer
c) quesadillas travel easy and thus she can lug them back to her sick bed without much hassle
Yeah, that sucks for her. I get it. But, guess what? It also sucks for me too! How? Well, for one thing I’ve been going to the gym pretty religiously lately, clocking straight 5 mile runs on the treadmill at least 4 times a week, all just so I don’t slip right into that early-40’s out-of-shape chubby Daddy compartment if I don’t have to.
But now this: big trash bag size sacks of 17 kinds of pre-shredded Mexican cheese staring at me from the fridge every time I open the damn door. And barrels of salsas, vast fields of tortillas.
Kegs of friggin’ sour cream.
Who could possibly just reach by all of that on their way to grab the radishes and celery, huh? You tell me. Who? No one that’s who. So, now I find myself eating this God-forsaken pub appetizer several times a week! It isn’t fair. I don’t deserve this.
Another thing that has really shaken up my world is the fact that Monica is always retching and puking. That’s her business, of course, and I absolutely sympathize with her poor haggard body, but c’mon already. Every single night of the week I’ll be damned if I can get away from the discombobulating sounds of all that 3AM hacking and choking, you know?
I mean, we live in a pretty good-sized farmhouse, but to be honest, I think it’s a farmhouse with walls made out of Fruit Roll-Up or something. There I am, in the middle of the night, sleeping the deep, dreamless sleep that all patriarchal guys like me have slept since the Iron Age and then out of nowhere: BOOM! Above the air conditioner’s buzz, above the box fan’s whirr: I hear her cutting loose in the bathroom beyond the wall.
Then, of course, I’m up. I poke around Twitter, check my Facebook (never ANY messages or even any LIKES when the whole damn country is asleep). But that’s it. I’m up and I’m staying up because I just can’t fall back to sleep even though Monica retches so much that she can’t help but pass out for a nice couple more hours until the kids wake up.
People like to act like pregnancy is such a big deal for women, but look at me! I’m the man, the Baby Daddy, the husband; look at my plight and all of the stuff I have to deal with!
Sometimes too, in the late afternoon, when it’s time to water the tomato plants and the pumpkins, I look around for my wife and guess what? Yup, nowhere to be found. So, I wander up the stairs hoping that she’ll be putting on her gardening boots to help me head out into the ‘fields’ but no dice. In fact, ever since she got pregnant she hardly ever helps me with the watering at all. I know, I know…it’s because she is curled up in the fetal position in her bed trying to keep a single chintzy supermarket cheese quesadilla inside her belly so that the tiny baby growing in there will have a little nourishment, but that kind of thinking can only go so far, you know?
She wanted these tomato plants too, right?
But I’m the one out there watering them in the hot evening sun. I’m the one sweating over the wilting zucchinis and the squashes grabbing at my ankles like hands straight out of The Walking Dead, groaning for just a few drops of the hose water in my hands.
I’m the one firing up a big hearty appetite out there and then coming in to the house only to be seduced by those S.O.B tortillas and cheeses for the fourth night in a damn row.
Yes, I understand perfectly, people. My wife is creating life. And it is taking its toll on her body and her mind and her soul, so that she must use every miniscule iota of her inner-strength drawn from the deepest crevices of the wells in her guts just to ensure that our child will grow and thrive within her sacred Temple of Life.
No duh. I get all that.
But, all I’m saying is this: you try eating quesadillas and sour cream every night for dinner after watering all of the tomatoes yourself and then see if you don’t feel like this pregnancy is just wearing you down, man.
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