by austininva
When a woman is pregnant, I’m sure it’s supposed to be a wonderful time. I mean, the commercials portray this time of life as blissful and magical—a time when humanity takes a breath, smiles more, and is generally nicer to one another.
As anyone who has been pregnant—or known someone who has been pregnant—can tell you, that is the furthest thing from the truth.
Your nights are spent aching, tossing and turning, searching for that one centimeter of bed that’s actually comfortable. And wouldn’t you know it? That one centimeter just happens to be in the last four-inch strip of the bed your husband is clinging to for dear life.
Heat and cold take on new and miserable meanings. You will never be comfortable again while the baby is growing. It’s always either too hot or too cold—sometimes both at once.
And your appetite? It transforms into that of an alien. Pickles, peanut butter, anchovies, and chocolate… the cravings defy belief. Even moms-to-be shudder once they realize what they’re actually eating. All the while, the food can’t be eaten fast enough.
If you haven’t guessed yet, my wife and I are expecting baby #2, and the pregnancy has hit full force… at just 6 weeks in. I love my wife, and it was at her behest that I write this post. Let’s be honest: this stuff is just too funny not to share.
We had a long day of errands, and the sun was finally setting. In our house, after a full day out, it’s just easier to grab dinner on the way home. This particular day, we decided to get food so that Logan the Terrible could be locked in the dungeon—I mean, lovingly tucked into bed.
Chores: done. Shopping: done. Ice cream melting in the trunk: check. A good day, overall.
Throughout the day, Jo had been commenting—over and over and over—how much she really wanted some fried chicken.
Which is pregnancy code for:
“We better go get fried chicken now or someone will suffer a slow and painful death, and they will never find the body. And if they do, it won’t be recognizable as human.”
So I did what any survival-minded husband would do: I stepped on the gas and hunted down the nearest chicken place.
Suddenly, Jo lurched forward in her seat and yelled, “THERE! POPEYES!”
I swerved hard into the parking lot—possibly sending a nearby car off the road—but in times of war, sacrifices must be made. I zipped around the building and hit the brakes hard… only to reveal, to Jo’s horror, a line.
To be fair, it was a long line. About five cars deep.
I glanced over, preparing to apologize for the delay—but stopped short. Jo’s upper lip was trembling. Tears welled in her eyes. And then? The floodgates opened.
She knew it was nothing, but she couldn’t help herself. That line of four cars (yes, one pulled away) was the last straw.
Through the sobs, she tried to explain—as only a pregnant, hungry woman can—that life was unfair, that this was too much, that surely not all these people wanted fried chicken.
As the line inched forward and we hit two cars left, she turned to comfort our son, who—watching his mother collapse into tears for no reason—began crying too.
Next in line, the tears started to dry. Jo wiped her face and turned to the menu, scanning with intense focus.
I considered telling her the menu hadn’t changed…
They sold chicken.
And chicken.
And, oh look—more chicken.
But the look on her face as she read that menu said it all:
“Now is not the time.”
We got our food. We drove home. We ate. We put Logan to bed.
Later that night, Jo snuggled up beside me and whispered sweetly into my ear:
“If you ever tell anyone I cried in the Popeyes drive-thru, I’ll have to kill you.”
But I’m lucky. My wife can laugh at life’s funny moments. If she couldn’t, I wouldn’t last very long, because I lead a very funny life.
And not too long after that night, she recanted and suggested I write the story down.
I love my wife. I love my life. And let me tell you—there is a never-ending stream of humor in both.
Hope today’s a good one,
austininva
