You’ve got to love your husband. He has sex, he has an orgasm, ejaculates and nine months later calls himself Dad. You have sex, probably without an orgasm; for the next thirty minutes you lie propped up on a pillow with your legs in the air, hoping his sperm will make its way up the cervical canal and meet up with your egg, and then you wait anxiously until you can take a pregnancy test to find out whether in nine months you’ll be able to call yourself Mom. Of course, all of this assumes you had planned to get pregnant in the first place.
But that’s just the tip of the iceberg, right? You spend the next few months nauseated, vomiting and eating saltines. All the while, he takes clients to four-star restaurants and eats four-course meals. While your body contorts into different shapes, his body stays exactly the same. Maybe he gains a few pity pounds—but for the most part, you’re on your own.
Over the next months that follow, you complain — a lot. He comforts you while flicking the DVR controller. You burp, fart and have heartburn that could light your house on fire. He smiles, rubs your feet, tells you what a great job you’re doing.
When you get to bed, you can’t sleep; he sleeps like a baby. Your mind is racing: Will I be a good parent? What will our lives be like? How will I cope? Maybe you even wake him out of his sound sleep with your questions. “Piece of cake,” he snores, and falls fast asleep again. You gaze down at your enormous belly, your aching breasts, the spider veins that are slowly creeping their way up your legs. You look at his body as he sleeps and realize that nothing’s changed for him; is this fair? Do I even need to answer that question?
I always hated those husbands that told people, “We’re pregnant.” What do they mean, “we”? Are they kidding? We are NOT pregnant. If men could get pregnant we’d become extinct, and it wouldn’t be gradual, either. It would be sudden, like an explosion and nine months later, the human race would cease to exist.
All right, I’m running away with myself — but just a little.
It doesn’t end there, though. After the baby comes out, your husband’s body is still normal, but yours has gone through a war. You’re breaking out, you’re not yourself and you’re having serious mood swings. He’s trying to help but looks a little scared, not of fatherhood, mind you — you think he might be scared of you! You look in the mirror; why wouldn’t he be scared of you? Your feet are huge, your hair is falling out, you haven’t slept and you’re leaking from every orifice in your body. But then you gaze down at your sleeping baby and take a deep breath. Your husband hands you a cup of decaf, and you know its all been worthwhile.