Being a Pregnant Bitch & Other Things That Weren’t On My Bucket List But…Here We Are.

24 Jan

From the moment I decided I wanted to have my husband’s babies (age 7, before we ever knew the other existed), I knew that when that time came, I would be this cool-ass pregnant wife. I would be like “Yeah, babe, go out and don’t worry about me. I’ll be home painting cutesy excerpts from depressing children’s books on wooden pallets. Don’t check-in for seven hours, I want you to have a night out to relax”. M’kay. It’s kind of like how I thought that when we first started dating I would be this chill-ass girlfriend. “Chill-ass” in a way that I would never make him take 17 pictures of me from different angles then scream-cry about being obese, hold past arguments over his head, or throw southwestern omelettes against the wall in mini fits of rage over minor inconveniences. Well, I am wrong a lot and just as I was less of a chill-ass girl friend and more of a “maybe she’s stable today at least” situation, I am also a bitchy pregnant wife.

Someone recently sent me a comedian’s skit about being the resentful pregnant wife and man, is that me. Every time my husband mentions the possibility of potentially going out (beats around the bush trying to gage my reaction, basically, kind of sort of, out of fear, then backs down and retreats is more like it), the resentment slowly creeps up. The feeling starts in my detoxed liver and weaves through my watered down blood and chills my lukewarm heart. Then I overthink about it and that’s always the best approach when dealing with your own insanity, right? I revisit it 3 minutes later, then it’s like, BOOM… “Oh, okay, you’re going out? That’s cool. Out with friends. To the bar. Friday night. MUST BE NICE. I’d like to do that. Thought we’d stay in and look at the registry again. Watch a new Dateline mystery. That’s cool. We can do that another night before we’re both dead. If you hate me and prefer your friends to me, that’s cool. JUST DATE THEM. It’s cool. Things are cool and things MUST BE NICE. TO JUST INSEMINATE YOUR WIFE WITH YOUR SATAN SPERM AND THEN LEAVE HER TO WATCH NETFLIX FOR 9 MONTHS WHILE YOU GO OUT ONCE A MONTH LIKE SOME KIND OF DEGENERATE IDIOT. DON’T LOOK AT ME. DON’T YOU LOOK AT ME. STOP LOOKING. WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE IN THIS HOUSE RIGHT NOW. I’M ABOUT TO LIGHT THIS HOUSE ON FIRE AND I AM VERBALIZING IT AS AN ACTUAL CRY FOR HELP SO MAYBE YOU SHOULD GET 9-1-1 ON THE HORN!!!!!!”

Just kidding……..


Here is the thing, I KNOW it is irrational to go into a jealous rage because I can’t close out the bar and he can (note that I haven’t closed out a bar in years even when I wasn’t pregnant). But my hormones make me not care very much. The other day I almost puked and/or shit myself on Quincy Ave after eating a cup of clam chowder at Grumpy White’s (to no fault of Grump’s!). Like, I had to pull my car over and sweat for a solid five minutes before I was okay to turn the engine back on. When I got home he was complaining about having “a little bit of heartburn”. I was still panting while I listened to his description, “symptoms sound like GERD, but I don’t know. I don’t really want to go to the doctor. I think milk makes it worse, weirdly”. I listen, eyes wide and wild. I just had a traumatic, physical episode that could have involved loss of a couple of bodily functions due to eating 8 ounces of chowder in front of The Potting Bench. If I hadn’t breathed into an old Taco Bell bag I found under my seat (from HIM), it would have happened. Does anyone know what that is like? No, because this only happens to toddlers and old people (aw, old people problems break my heart). Your heartburn is adorable though and I feel sorry for you.

Don’t feel too bad for my husband because he does get to leave the premises once in a while. Like, a few nights ago I sent him out to get whipped cream. Nice little drive to 7-11. Oh, and we went go to Lowes three times in one weekend quite often.

I’m never going to be as chill-ass as I’d hoped I’d be, and that’s okay. Or maybe it’s not. But my hormones don’t make me care very much right now.

For the record, I love my husband and would like, probably never murder him.


Meat Cleaver image courtesy of


One Response to “Being a Pregnant Bitch & Other Things That Weren’t On My Bucket List But…Here We Are.”

  1. William Tells All January 24, 2017 at 5:09 pm #

    Er, ah – is it just me or have you documented the basis to argue a plea of temporary insanity should you end up – say – using the meat cleaver that you used as a graphic addition to your latest diary update?

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