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An open letter to Husbands of Pregnant Women

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Semele's Riches: An open letter to Husbands of Pregnant Women

Semele's Riches

Adventures in handmade childhood.

Monday, January 24, 2011

An open letter to Husbands of Pregnant Women

Back in the day when my friends and I were all hot, intelligent young women who, for some reason, were still willing to hang out with Young Guys Who Don't Get Us, my male friends all told me that they appreciated the fact that I Spoke Guy. So now, from the other side of thirty, when my friends and I are all hot, intelligent women who, for some reason, love Men Who Have Learned To Sometimes Act Like They Get Us, I am going to do it again.

Dear Husband of A Pregnant Woman:

I love being a mom and I'm deeply grateful to be blessed with not just one child, but the imminent arrival of a second, healthy child, so what I am about to tell you is Not Complaining.  I'm just trying to put this in perspective for you.

My uterus is the size of a soccer ball.  No matter how many times I hear "cute pregnant woman" or "you look great!" I'm no fool.  My belly is pulling the cuffs of my pants up, my waistband is higher than Erkel's, and Even My Socks Don't Fit.  If I drop a tube of toothpaste at the grocery store, I have to do the weightlifter squat like I'm about to bench a 500 lb barbell in order to retrieve it, because I have kissed my waist goodbye for the forseeable future.

From the back, I still look like a normal sized human, so others are resentful of my wanting enough personal space to account for the soccer ball, and keep impatiently asking me to "excuse" them when they wish to get by.  Or worse, they just bump into me.  A lot.  (Note to those who don't know:  A pregnant belly does NOT "suck in."  Sorry.)  Folding myself up small enough to buckle my kid into his carseat in the back of my two-door car feels like being birked.  In fact, I feel roughly like I have a 12 year old sitting on my rib cage at all times, and my unborn child's needle sharp feet regularly inflict sharp blows to my bladder and/or kidneys.

In other words, I Do Not Feel So Sexy These Days.

Which is why I want to tell all of you, Husbands of Pregnant Women, that although I understand that when you talk lovingly of the Nymph You Took On Your Honeymoon, you mean, "I can't believe she loves me enough to let me do this to her," what your wife hears is, "Well, you USED to be beautiful."  In terms of this whole man/woman thing, that is going to be about as successful as trying the pickup line, "Well, I'm really into your pretty friend, but she shut me down, so... wanna hook up?"  (In case you are in the "Don't Get Us" category, that line will only work on the type of woman who is Don't Get Any On You Crazy.  Don't use it.)

Your wife, who feels approximately like a whale that has somehow found itself beached on the couch of your landlocked home, has a living being sucking the energy out of her.  The closest she gets to "nymph" these days is watching old episodes of Charmed. If you have told her, sincerely, that she is Really Very Pretty once an hour since the middle of her second trimester, she may laugh this off and continue giving you the "you are so hot" look.  (Note to YOU: Of course you are still hot.  You can still touch your toes.  Your wife has not failed to notice.)  If not, however, she will be too tired to tell you that You Are Being a Blockhead.

She will go to sleep, leaving you and your fond memories of her Nymph days alone together, so you may go squat in your mancave and cuddle up with them.  When she wakes up tomorrow, barely able to put on her shoes without assistance, she will not look back on this evening fondly.

Which is why I am telling you... SHUT UP about the Nymph.  The only thing your wife wants to hear right now is, "You are Really Very Pretty."  You'll thank me tomorrow.

A Mom Who Still Speaks Guy



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