The other day, my husband woke up, rolled over in bed and just stared at me, his bleary eyes full of fear.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I had a dream. A long dream. That you were mad at me. Just one, long, giant dream of you being really angry at me,” he replied mechanically while shivering involuntarily.
And there it was. Out of the mouths of babes. Or shell-shocked husbands, in this case. I have managed in my pregnant state to thoroughly traumatize an adult man. So much so, in fact, that he can’t even catch a break in his dreams.
In my defense, this is at least 50 percent his fault. He made his bed and now he has to lie in it while a huge, puffy, irrational wife yells at him because Tina Fey is no longer on “SNL” and why the hell did they take Cecily Strong off Weekend Update? Huh? HUH!?!
Still, I feel deep down that I should apologize. But I can’t. I just can’t. I’m lucky if at this point I can choke out a “good morning” without literally growling afterward.
Honestly, trying to pretend to be a normal human being when really you’re drowning in lady hormones that make you want to light everyone on fire is one of the hardest, yet overlooked, accomplishments of womankind.
Have you been set on fire by a pregnant woman? No? That proves right there how much inner strength we females have. Cause somewhere down the line, I guarantee a pregnant woman really, REALLY wanted to do you significant harm. You might not even know her. She could have been standing in line behind you at the grocery store when you were taking too long to find your debit card, unlike a normal person who would have already had their card out and at the ready while the FREAKING CASHIER WAS SCANNING YOUR DUMBASS ITEMS, YOU STUPID, BLOODY MORON, I HOPE YOU DIE.
It’s worse this time too, believe it or not. Because now I have a toddler and every ounce of non-crazy in my pregnant body (which ain’t much) is used up calmly trying to explain to him for the 33rd time why we don’t headbutt Mommy’s face, no matter how hilarious he thinks it is. And any leftover non-crazy is used up trying not to hurl the sofa at my dog every time he barks (which is any time anything within a three mile radius of our house slightly moves).
Which means my husband gets the full brunt of crazy thrown at him on pretty much a daily basis.
For example, here are some reasons I got mad at him today:
- He let me eat too much cheese
- Someone drank a martini on TV and I got really jealous
- He knew Sookie wasn’t asked to be in the “Gilmore Girls” revival and didn’t tell me because he was worried I’d get irrationally mad about it
- He let me eat too much fried chicken.
- I fell asleep and missed the end of “Supernatural.”
- I’ll never be able to read all the books in the world before I die.
Exacerbating all this hormonal craziness is the fact that all the fun has been taken out of modern day pregnancy. Because science hates fun. So, drinking, smoking, fancy foreign cheese? Fuggetaboutit. Opium dens? Nope. You aren’t even allowed cheap thrills like a heady dose of NyQuil (just non-coma-inducing Tylenol for you, missy) or chugging a Red Bull until you are so caffeinated that the number 11 smells like purple.
You can’t even get properly fat anymore. It used to be you were supposed to take it easy and eat for two. Now my doctor is telling me hurtful things like “eat salad” and “exercise every day” and “your weight gain is unprecedented.” Plus, all those annoying people screaming at me to love my new soft, squishy, pregnant body; the same people, mind you, who for the past 30 years were screaming at me that the ultimate definition of feminine beauty was to be shaped like a scarecrow.
Is it any wonder we go crazy?
So, no, I won’t apologize to my husband. At this point, I’m just trying to survive until my due date.
But I do want to thank him. A huge thank you, in fact. As hard as pregnancy is, at least I know my partner won’t burst into tears and throw the remote against the wall if I ask him to turn down the TV. He has dealt with everything like a gentleman and a scholar. Even when I want to eat dinner at 4:30 p.m. because food is literally the only thing I look forward to anymore or I decide we have to go through all the closets RIGHT NOW and get rid of EVERYTHING because I am nesting and NESTING HARD.
Still, through all this, even when I’m getting ready to sling the last crazy arrow of the day at him, he kisses me, gathers all the pillows in the house and makes me a pillow fort on the floor because I can no longer get comfortable lying down on our lumpy couch.
And each night I fall asleep and sleep the peaceful, dreamless, beautiful sleep of the woman who knows she is truly loved.
Brilliantly written! Are those your drawings? Absolute Hilarity. Hurry up and pop that baby out, the Opium dens await!!! xo
Thanks so much!
I see that yes, those are in fact your drawings. Awesome!
Not everyone can master the art of the stick figure. 🙂
They are stick figures yes, but they clearly emote the human experience and female neurosis so well!