They told us to touch bellies. I know this is hard to believe, but that requires a little maneuvering when one person is 6’6″ and the other is 5’0″ (I am! Honest! Check the driver’s license!)
At birthing class last night, Justin got to wear the Empathy Belly! Except he, being the conniving person he is, timed it so that he would wear it while we were just sitting around in class and not while walking around touring the birthing center. So instead of being empathetic afterward, he just kind of shrugged and asked, “What’s the big deal?”
And to that, I must now recount a conversation I just had with my father. I feel it sums up my reaction quite well.
Me: Warning. I may be pregnant and bitchy.
Dad: I may not be used to pregnant but you’ve always been bitchy so we should be ok.
Me: Except now I can use sharp objects during my violent fits and juries just smile and laugh at the stupid man who f*cked with a preggo.
I really thought I was doing well with the pregnancy bitchiness, but yesterday I may have had a bit of an overreaction toward a drunk guy on a bicycle who decided he and his bike could control the road. In my defense, I have a bit of a predisposition toward road rage. I don’t enjoy being cut off, and while I may be too much of a chicken to let the other driver know, I get some pretty inventive language going in the privacy of my car. Except yesterday. Apparently I’m not a chicken when the guy is on a bicycle. A bicycle going 20 mph slower than me. I’m not a physics guru, but it seems to me that when an object with my car’s mass meets an object of his bicycle’s mass and the bicycle is going that much slower, things don’t end well for Bicycle Man, no matter how awesome his hair is. Even his awesome combination of fat plumber’s crack and 80s rocker hair, a combination that usually soothes all anger, couldn’t quell my rage toward him for cutting me off on a bicycle. Twice. Hence my feeling that it may have been an overreaction. Oh, and the Facebook rant may have also been a tad bit over-the-top.
Whoa. Getting carried away again. Back to the original subject.
So Justin didn’t really see the big deal of the belly. Granted, I haven’t been very miserable yet, just some back pain and night sweats (which are like WHOA). But I foresee myself being very miserable, and his “eh, it’s not that bad” attitude may cause some friction. Now, I’m not guaranteeing that sharp objects will come into play. I’m not even hoping that sharp objects will come into play. I’m just saying, you shouldn’t push your luck with preggos. It could get dangerous.
So, I did what I can only imagine any reasonable pregnant woman would do in this situation: I did my best to make the belly miserable for him. I pushed on it and told him it was the baby kicking. I poked him in the ribs and told him it was the baby. I tried to get his bladder, but I don’t think I ever could reach it. Sad.
In the end, I think he’s still a little “eh, what’s the big deal?” about the belly, but he sure the hell learned his lesson about expressing his opinion. And isn’t that the most important lesson of all?
The Magnificent Ms 