He’s so kinky, that Chuck

On the whole, being pregnant has made me ridiculously sappy and sensitive to my fellow man. I’m that fool crying over lame commercials and decrying the injustice of someone speeding past an elderly woman in the parking lot. What if she was scared? What if the racing car gave her heart palpitations, which sent her into cardiac arrest and the shop attendant found her lying by her grocery cart, melted ice cream dripping down her frail, little arms? What if?

Save the whales!

Then there are the other days. The days the What to Expect chick is talking about when she casually mentions that you "may be" emotional during your pregnancy. Like she's giving you permission.



Yep. Those are the days when I remind myself of Bruce Banner from the Hulk: “Don’t make me angry. You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.”

Like yesterday. Chuck went to a networking function Tuesday and yesterday; he spent Tuesday night at a friend’s house. When he came home last night, it was close to 9 p.m. I was upstairs, half asleep, as I am most nights. I heard the front door open. I waited for his footsteps on the stairs. And I waited. Surely he was going to come upstairs and ask me how I was or if I needed anything. Surely.

I waited some more. And some more. I heard things clanging in the kitchen. It was 9:30 p.m.

“Relax,” I told myself, “he’ll be up in a minute.”

9:45 p.m...9:48 p.m...

The more I sat there, the more enraged I became. How dare he not run upstairs and check on his pregnant wife? He’d been gone for two days. How could he be so cold and insensitive? What kind of beast had I married? Should I be having children with this stone wall of a man? I’d birth a brick, that’s how cold he was! And what the hell was he doing in the kitchen?

I stormed downstairs and caught him red handed. Doing the dishes.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi?” I spat. “Now you say hi? Now?”

Oh, God, no, there was no stopping it.



“How could you not come upstairs—”

“I thought you were sleeping—”

“Don’t interrupt me! You’re cold! You didn’t want to check on me? See how I’m doing? You’ve been gone for two days—” Snot, tears, red eyes. “Two days!” More snot. “How could you not check on me?”

“I thought I’d do the dishes and then—”

“The dishes?! The dishes?? What about me? What if I was thirsty? Didn’t you want to see me? Didn’t you miss me?”

Once I got started I couldn’t stop. I had a Niagara Falls' worth of hormonal angst, and it was gushing out.

All in all I’d say the What to Expect rationed mood swing lasted a good half hour. Then, as quickly as it started, it was over. A strange calm came over me. I stood there staring at Chuck. I suddenly couldn’t remember why I’d been so upset. He’d been doing the dishes. He thought I was sleeping.

Holy shit, I thought, this must be how Bruce Banner feels when he comes to wearing his shredded clothing.

“I think I should get some sleep,” I said. “You, uh, coming to bed?”

Chuck stared at me, mouth agape. He nodded.

“Super!” I said.

I had every intention of apologizing when Chuck came upstairs, but he didn’t want to talk. Instead he wanted me to tie a rope around my neck and do silly tricks, like jump off a chair while the rope was also tied to the ceiling.

Luckily I've porked up enough to make that impossible.

Mwahahahaha.