If you have read this blog then you know that I tend to be a tad overprotective of my pregnant wife.
As a kid I once would not give my mother a bedtime hug. I was upset, although the reason escapes me. She came upstairs and bent down for a hug. I turned my back and so did my brother. It was the classic kid ruse, I will withhold my love unless I get what I want. I was 5 at the time.
My mother went downstairs and I was feeling very smug. Yes, that will teach her, now I shall rule all. But I forgot that the ultimate ruler was in the house. The phrase “Wait unitil I tell you father” had real meaning in our household. For some reason, on this particular night, I forgot that.
My dad came up next. Stood at the top of the stairs and then pulled his belt out. For those who have had a lot of licks in the past, the sound will be familiar. Everyone of us will have flashbacks when we hear that sound. Everytime I take off my belt, I laugh because I know that sound used to mean, “Crap, I’m getting licks”.
My father took a step towards my brother and I. He was always very calm when we were about to get licks. It was eerie. But most times atleast I didn’t have to go through this alone as I was a toadie which meant my ultimate defense was that my brother told me to do this, yes sir, I was just following orders. My brother could never deny this because it would undermine his authority over me, so smack smack, we got most of them together.
My father informed us that we, under no circumstances, should ever not love our mother. It was to be unconditional with no questions asked. Our mother deserved our respect at all times. He informed us that there would be penalties to breaking this rule.
We each got our three smacks, went downstairs, and hugged our mother. To this day, I do not believe I have broken this rule. I am 32.
So in retrospect, it is no wonder that I am overprotective of my pregnant wife. She has already given me one child and now she is lucky enough to give me a second. Of all the women in the world, she was chosen to carry the next President of the United States. How could that not be an honor.
In return, I get into uber-Hossman mode and try to make her as comfortable as possible. There are certain things, as a good southern boy, that my wife is not allowed to do when she is pregnant.
First, she is not allowed to carry anything over 10 pounds. This is a challenge as our first angel is over 20 pounds at the moment. But we make due. This means no carrying laundry up the second floor, no picking up the fat dog, and above all, no taking down the 100 pound box of her shoes from the top closet shelf. I freaked when I saw this. She has shoes that are classified into “winter” shoes and “summer” shoes. I have no idea what this means. This is Greek to me. I have exactly 4 pairs of shoes. Work shoes, tennis shoes, sandals, and cleats. Each serves a purpose. I but a new pair every couple of years. But every time we “spring forward and fall back”, I am up on a latter lifting down that damn box. It is the bane of my existence.
The second rule in the Hossman pregnancy is that she must eat every meal, every day, with snacks on our “pregnancy diet”. This doesn’t sound so bad, this is good stuff right? Ok, I can be a little hard assed about this one as well. I try to make her breakfast before she leaves and constantly hound her if she is snacking between meals. I admit, my mother hen routine can get old. And it’s not always the food she likes to eat. And some foods she can’t have as much as she wants. But at least she is spiteful about it. This means that I cannot eat the food that I love as well. Even though I’m not pregnant. Even though I am not with child. But hey, I am supportive.
Finally, my wife is not allowed to pump her own gas. I am just terrified that the fumes will cause a birth defect. So I pump her gas for her. If I can’t do it, I have no qualms about calling my brother in law to fill in for me.
Which, finally, brings me to the point of this blog. I am feeling very wordy today.
I went and pumped gas for my wife. This is normally something that I like to do. Gets me out of the house a little and can scarf down a candy bar without anyone being the wiser. Maybe stop by and get some good old McDonald’s and finish it while my wife continues to eat broccoli.
I am pumping my gas when my nose starts to itch. I scratch, but there is still a tickle. I go to the car and look in the mirror. What I see shocks me, terrifies me.
I have an extra long nose hair that has somehow curled UP and is not tickling the outside of my nose. Let me repeat, an extra long nose hair.
I have never felt so old in my life. Immediately I have a flash of my future self with bushy eyebrows, mounds of ear hair, and nose hair that you know everyone will discuss when I’m out of earshot or my hearing aid is turned down.
When did it get to this? I have never had this problem before. I have never had to worry about this. I used to make fun of people that had to buy the Nose Hair Trimmers that also cook steaks on the late night info-mercials.
Now I have a nose hair that Tarzan could swing on.
I am shocked and disgusted at the same time. There is only one way to fix this, it must be plucked. Have you every had to pluck a nose hair? It hurts like hell. Your eyes water and it brings you to your knees.
But I don’t have any tweezers, just these sausage fingers. But this is bothering me so bad that it will not deter me. I spend the next ten minutes trying to get this thing out. It was not a pretty site. I’m sure I had my finger and thumb all the way in my nose at the same time. I couldn’t get a grip. It was like the ring toss at the carnival, can’t be done. You’ll spend 25 dollars tossing a ring 2 feet and still not being able to hit the damn coke bottle for a plastic comb for your date. Impossible.
I tried and tried and tried. It got personal. Where did this hair come from, what is it’s motivation, is it trying to ruin me, what have I done to bore it’s wrath? Did it migrate from my head, getting lost on it’s way to my lower back and deciding, screw it, this is our new home?
My eyes are watering with every attempt. I sneeze twice which makes the situation worse because now it’s all slimy. This goes on for a good 10 minutes when I notice Ms. Hot Blond in the mustang at the pump next to me.
I guess she pulled up when I wasn’t paying attention, and there I am, plucking my nose hair. Good god, how long has she been there. What has she seen.
Most people look away when they are caught staring. Not Ms. Hot Blond though, she is waiting for my face to turn a bright color of red, which it quickly does.
Now, everyone does “secret” stuff in your car. We all know that everyone can see in but we treat it like it is home. My car is the Embassy of Hossman and where it goes should be considered domestic soil. So I never thought about not doing this, even though it is a public place.
Contrary to what you may read on this site, I am not good with women. I am a big believer that once a woman gets to know me, she will want me everytime. Chicks dig funny, not as much as money, but close. It’s the first impressions that I have a major problem with. I have no idea what to say. Even in strip clubs, I am horrible at this. THEY ARE THERE BECAUSE I AM PAYING THEM but I am always the guy asking what their real name is and if they are in college. I know that they will lie to me and they know that I will pretend to be interested, but I still am no good at it. In short, it is a beatdown to give me a lap dance.
I decide that it is high time to get the hell out of here as Ms. Hot Blond is still looking at me. She is disgusted. I am embarrassed. All so my wife will not have to pump gas.
It actually takes me a full day to tell my wife this. Me, the man with 1000 stories, cannot bring this one up.
But what I did do was invest in some nice high quality Nose Hair Trimmers that can also dial 911 in case of emergency. Only 3 monthly installments of 199.95 on QVC. Totally worth it.