Last night Chris and I were laying on the couch watching March Madness. (For the record, I am number 1 in our pool right now, thankyouverymuch… Chris is number 8, but whose counting?) Its getting harder and harder to cuddle up together. Actually, its been darn near impossible in the last few weeks. My belly takes up most of the room on the couch, leaving Chris to either curl up in a ball at the far end or fend for himself on the tiny loveseat. Not exactly the cuddling experience people crave.
So, last night Chris was sitting on the far end of the couch and I started nagging in him to come sit with me. I needed a good cuddle, and he was just the husband to do it. It was tricky. Very tricky. He had to navigate through over-stuffed pillows, two dogs, my ice pack on my ankles, my heating pad for my back. It wasn’t easy for him. The closest he could squeeze was about my hip, which was not great, but it would do.
He lays down and we’re sort of nestled together, watching basketball. All of a sudden, he grabs one of the throw pillows and wedges it between my…um…rear and him.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Well…you’ve been a little…well…you never know when you might…so I thought I’d just put a little barrier up in case you…you know…fart.”
“You’re protecting yourself from my gas?” I asked, horrified. If it wouldn’t have taken so much effort, I would have gotten up and stalked away. But I’m seven and a half months pregnant and it takes more than a little blushing to get me to move these days.
“Well, you just never know. And I’m laying right in your line of fire…” he stammered.
It was quiet while I considered how much he had just insulted me.
“Eh, alright,” I said, turning back to the television. “You’re probably right anyway.”
My marriage is nothing if its not honest.