Category Archives: Husbands

The Breaking Point

I think I have finally answered the age-old question:  How long can the husband of an expectant wife keep his sanity?  The answer would be seven and a half months.

Chris is revolting against my pregnancy.  Its not a problem with me or with the Bean, I think he has just finally had his limit of fetching, caring, and empathizing.  I’ve noticed that there have been less foot rubs in the past couple weeks.  And where he used to tuck me in bed every night, helping me strategically place each of my 1,000 pillows, he now just shoves the pillows here and there, tosses a kiss in my direction, and heads downstairs to the television.

I don’t blame him for this.  Not at all.  In case you hadn’t guessed, I am not exactly the strong and silent type.  I’m more the hurl myself on the floor, yelling “WHY DOES GOD HATE ME” type.  Chris has put up with his fair amount of complaining and moaning and crying, so I’m not surprised that he has hit his breaking point.  I’m just surprised at what it was the pushed him over the edge.

This morning I woke up earlier than him, like always.  I took the dogs downstairs, like always.  I fed them and had a bowl of cereal myself, like always.  And then I settled in with a good book, like always.

Enter Chris.

About an hour later Chris wakes up and comes downstairs, seemlingly happy.  Until he goes into the kitchen.  And we are out of bread.  And I thought the world was going to end.

“Where’s the bread?!?!?!”  he frantically shouted.

“I think we’re out,” I replied, distracted by my book.

“WHAT??!?!!”  he screeched.  “HOW COULD WE BE OUT OF BREAD?  HOW AM I GOING TO HAVE MY TWO SLICES OF PEANUT BUTTER TOAST?  YOU CAN’T MAKE TOAST WITHOUT BREAD!  WHERE’S THE BREAD?  WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?”

Hearing the hysteria in his voice, I suggested that he throw on some shoes and run up to the gas station to get a loaf of bread to make his beloved peanut butter toast.  To which he snapped back, “You go get it!”  (Note:  He said this laughingly, but he was 100% serious.)

Now, I love Chris, but I’m not about to drag my pregnant, pajama’d belly up to the gas station for him when he is perfectly capable of going himself.  If he were impaired – say unconscious or trapped under a large bookshelf – I may had offered my assistance.  But this was not the case.

“I would do it for you!” he insisted.  “Go get me bread!”

“No!” I yelled.

“Why not?!?!” he demanded.

And then I uttered the line that pushed him over the edge.  “Because I’m pregnant!”

“You’re not THAT pregnant!” he responded.  “Go get me bread!”

At this point, I looked down at the book I was holding.  It is a book on the No-Cry Method of parenting, which teaches you different ways to soothe a crying baby.  Chris was sitting next to me on the couch – whining uncontrollably for no apparent reason and didn’t seem to be able to calm himself.  All symptoms of colic.

So, I calmly and confidently lean over and take him in my arms, firmly yet gently, as the book instructs.  And I begin to rock him back and forth in a repetitious manner which simulates the lulls of the womb.  And lastly, I start making “swishing” noises.

And wonder of all wonders, he stops moaning!  Just like the baby book said he would!

So, we sit there for a minute rocking back and forth and then from somewhere within my arms, I hear him whimper quietly, “Please go get me bread.”

I knew parenting books were a crock of crap.

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…And Then He Had to Die

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Chris:  Maybe you should think about limiting your Girl Scout cookie in take.

Me:  Maybe we should get a divorce.

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Ring Around My Fat Finger

In the past few weeks my hands have started to swell pretty badly and almost every day. Its gotten to the point now where if it happens and I am still wearing my wedding and engagement rings, they get stuck. Chris keeps getting on to me saying that I need to stop wearing the rings or else he’s going to have to cut them off of me one day. I compromised and am now only wearing my wedding band.

Sans engagement ring

Sans engagement ring

I love my wedding band.  It wasn’t actually the one I picked out when we got engaged.  The one I picked out was much cheaper.  Just a band.  But on the night before our wedding, Chris gave me a small box and inside was this beautiful platnum band with small diamonds.  It matched my engagement ring and it was gorgeous.

So, I love my wedding band.  No question about it.  But more than the band, I adore my engagement ring.  It isn’t big.  It isn’t something flashy.  It won’t stop traffic.  It is just a single solitare square cut diamond, small but beautiful.  I love that ring because I know that Chris saved money for it while he was a poor college student.  He kept the money hidden in a picture frame behind a picture of me.  I love that. And I love that ring because of the day that he gave it to me.

Have I told you about how we got engaged?  Its a pretty great story.  When we were juniors in college, Chris and I went on a trip to New York together at Christmastime.  I had begged the entire trip for us to go ice skating in Rockefellar Center, right in front of the big tree.  But Chris kept putting it off and putting it off.  One night after we went to see the Rockettes in Radio City, Chris asked if I wanted to walk over to Rockefellar Center and finally go ice skating.

Outside Radio City Music Hall the night of the engagement

Outside Radio City Music Hall the night of the engagement

So, we’re skating around in front of the big tree and the lights are twinkling and Christmas music is playing and there are a million people milling around, and all of a sudden Chris stops skating.  Right there in front of the big tree.  And he gets down on one knee.  And I cry.  And he asks if I’ll marry him.  And I say yes.  And we both cry.  And then I fall down (cause I’m on ice skates, remember…).

The proposal

The proposal


I said yes (...duh)

I said yes (...duh)


I immediately examine the ring

I immediately examine the ring

I loved my ring from that moment on.  We went back to our hotel room that night with a case of beer and a bag of pretzels, and we stayed up all night talking about weddings and marriage and, of course, my ring.

(This is a picture of me telling Chris that from now on, my ring will be front and center in pictures.)

Chris has been replaced by my ring

Chris has been replaced by my ring

The very next day, I bought my first wedding magazine and began plotting planning our wedding.  And, once again, my ring was front and center.

(Note the bling, bling)

(Note the bling, bling)

And that was the beginning of my love affair with my engagement ring.  I was hooked from then.  But its not the ring itself that hooked me.  I’m not bummed right now because I can’t wear a diamond ring on my finger.  It was more about what that ring meant at the time that Chris gave it to me.

When we got engaged, I was waiting to hear from law schools, he was floating around trying to decide what to do after graduation.  We didn’t know where we’d end up or even if we’d end up there together.  There were so many questions out there, so many obstacles, and it probably would have been easier for us to figure out our paths separately.  But when Chris gave me that ring, things just clicked into place for us.  We still had a million unanswered questions about how it would practically work out, but we knew that however things ended up, we’d be together.  And that’s why I love that ring.

And that’s why it is so hard for me to not wear it right now.  Because we are sort of back in that limbo phase.  Now, we are waiting for a baby, waiting on job opportunities, waiting to see how our lives will change yet again.  And being able to look down at that ring and just know that everything will click into place exactly how it is meant to be was very comforting to me.

I’ve been without my ring for about a week now.  And you know what?  I don’t need it.  I’m doing fine without it.  I guess its because I just know things are working out how they are supposed to – whether I’m wearing that ring or not.  And that’s a pretty good feeling.

But I can guarantee you that the minute that baby is out of my belly, I’m putting my pretty diamond back on my finger.  Every girl loves a little sparkle…

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Cuddling with a Pregnant Lady

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.

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Don’t Make Me Say It

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This past weekend I had to make a run to Target.  If you don’t know already, I have banned myself from Target as part of our household budget crisis.  I’m only allowed to go now if I bring a sponsor with me to keep me from trafficking the shoes and baby departments.  But this weekend, I needed to go and I needed to go by myself.  I had to buy things.  Things that no one should have to buy in front of other people.

When I got home from my Target excursion, Chris jumped all over me.  Why had I gone?  What was in my bag?  How much had I spent?  Did I count to ten before making the purchase (another part of my Target detox process)?  And that’s when I flipped out.

“I don’t have to justify these things to you!  Its none of your business!” and I stormed off to my bedroom.

In hindsight, I probably could have chosen my words more carefully and spoken more kindly, but I was backed into a corner, and when that happens I’m going to come out swinging.  Just like Tanya Harding.

It was hard enough for me to go to Target that morning anyway.  I didn’t want to buy these things anymore than you WANTED me to buy them, so don’t make it harder by asking me to justify unpleasant purchases to you.  Don’t make me admit out loud that the reason I had to go to Target was because I have become so incredibly huge in the past few weeks that I had to purchase actual tools to help me mold myself into something resembling a woman.

Don’t make me explain to you that my chest has become so large that I now need a black market bra and duct tape to keep it in check.  Or that I had to buy industrial strength cellulite lotion because the back of my legs are startling to curdle.  Don’t make me justify spending $10.00 on a new maternity camisole that I must wear under all my clothes, every day, in order to keep my belly button from poking someone’s eye out.  Don’t make me admit to you that I had to buy yet ANOTHER pair of even LARGER pants because my ass seems to think that it, too, is growing a small person.

Just don’t make me say these things.  No woman wants to admit these things – especially to her husband.  Just let me buy them in peace and stash the bag in the back of my closet like a normal person.  Let me keep pretending that I at least resemble the person I was before this kindergardner started expanding inside of my stomach.

Don’t make me tell you about all the secret things it takes to make a pregnant woman look somewhat normal.  Just don’t make me say it.

…cause that would be really embarrassing.

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I Care. I Daycare.

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Wanna know the craziest thing in the whole wide world?  Crazier than Britney Spears or seedless watermelons?  (I mean, really.  Where do the seeds go???)

Chris and I are picking a daycare for our child.  Lets pause and take that in for a minute.  Chris and I are picking a childcare provider for our child.  Lets take that sentence apart and laugh at all the craziness found in there.  A deconstruction activity, if you will.

Chris and I” – As in, the guy I used to make out with in the back of movie theaters when we were 16.

“…are picking a childcare provider” – As in, deciding who is the right person to care for a very small human.

“…for our child.” – As in, not just any small human, but the one that WE created.  OUR child.

What’s going on?  What’s happening here?  How’d this happen?  Where am I?

You may recall that we had a home daycare lined up for the little Beanie Weenie several months ago.  Sadly, that has fallen through and we are now left trying to find an alternative.  More specifically, we are left trying to find an alternative that does not require us to take out a second mortgage on our home.

This past week we have been visiting daycare centers in the evenings after work, and I have to tell you its kind of the scariest thing I’ve ever done.  I have always thought of myself as being fairly laid back.  I like a good routine as much as the next person, but I tend to go with the flow pretty well and generally speaking I’m fairly content as long as I know where my next meal is coming from.  But picking a daycare is bringing out this whole new side of me.  This new uptight side of me.  This new where-is-the-hand-sanitizer side of me.

I think I’m Momifying.  I think I’m morphing into a Mom.  Suddenly, I notice things like how clean the sheets on the crib in the nurseries are and where the nearest fire exits are located.  I’m asking questions about CPR training for the staff and sleep schedules for the babies.  I didn’t even know I knew enough to ASK these questions.  Sometimes I’ll say something and immediately I’ll think in my head, “Oh!  That was a good one!  Who told you to ask that?” and then I’ll realize that no one had to tell me.  I just KNEW to ask that question.

Its just crazy, I tell you.

And Chris is doing the same things.  I always pictured him as really uncomfortable around babies and baby things.  But this week, he’s looked so natural in a daycare setting.  Like, if I worked at the daycare, I would totally think he was a Dad.  In fact, the daycare owners are talking to both of us like we’re parents.

WHICH IS JUST CRAZY!!

Don’t they know that I still chew Bubblicious bubble gum and Chris still watches Saturday morning cartoons?  Don’t they know that I’m still scared to answer the door when I’m home alone and that Chris’ favorite movie is still The Goonies?  Don’t they know these things?  Cause I’m sure if they did know them, they would instead be saying things to us like, “Could you get your mother on the phone, Little Girl, and I’ll go over our holiday and vacation policy with her instead…”

But no.  They think that we are responsible enough to be parents and so we will continue to ask all the right questions and I’ll continue to test the baby locks on the safety gates.  Because if we don’t do it, who will?

Its very nervewracking.  I try to picture dropping the Bean off with these strangers, in these strange places and then getting in my car and just driving away.  I mean, I’ll come back at the end of the day, but still.  I can barely leave my dogs at the groomers for a few hours.  How am I supposed to leave my offspring all day, every day?  I’ve kind of gotten used to having him around.  He’s been my little roommate for the past 7 months.  I think I might miss him.

Oh, man.  This Momification thing is tough.  I’m getting all concerned and emotional and feely.

I’m one daycare visit away from a frilly apron and gingham sundresses.

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On Thin Ice

My back and feet have been killing me this past week.  Between the swelling of my ankles and the constant pain in my lower back from carrying 30 extra pounds (that’s right – I said 30), its been a rough week.  Which means I’ve been complaining more than usual.  Which means Chris is about to leave me.  Which wouldn’t be so bad except he still hasn’t fixed the closet doors in the baby’s room.

Normally, he’s pretty good about keeping his frustrations in check.  He never complains about me complaining.   And whenever I don’t feel good, he always gives me a bear hug that buries my face into his chest (…so that I can’t speak anymore).  But last night, some of his true thoughts accidentally seeped out.

I was sitting on the couch in the living room with my feet elevated and ice on my ankles, rubbing my lower back.

“I think this is what the whole third trimester might be,” I whined.

“What, sweetie?”  Chris asked, in his most understanding voice.  “Grumpy all the time?”

Uh….no.

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