I am afraid.
I know, Hossman is afraid. Something that shouldn't exist in this world of unicorns and rainbows. But fear has found it's way in and it has taken root. Don't tell my children.
You see, I live with a pregnant woman who is in her last trimester.
Slowly, all the other fathers nod in understanding.
The last trimester is tough, we all get that. You have to pee every hour, sneezing requires preparation, food looks great or horrible depending on the hour, you hurt everywhere, strange new ailments like restless leg or sciatica comes out of no where. Super smell allows you to smell every dust mite in existence. No room is bright enough, no room is dark enough. And hormones, sweet lord hormones. Like a tidal wave rolling in on that beach.
And who is on that beach?
Me. Only me. I grab an umbrella in Wilie Coyote style knowing that the only thing that is about to happen is a explosion sound and a dust ring that used to be me.
But what's worse than the hormones. Any man, anywhere, mentioning hormones. I may be sleeping on the couch by the end of this post.
Last night, and I'm not making this up, Hossmom punched me in the face. Granted she was sleeping and claims that it was an accident. Just like when she ate the last girl scout cookie, an accident, right.
I know that I am the blame for all this discomfort. I know that it was my insatiable needs that caused her to be in the "family way" again. And I freely take the blame for all that pent up rage. I can't unleash this on you people out in the real world, you would never survive. You need me on that wall.
However, I am not completely stupid. And that means that I try to walk very carefully, choose my words with care. I will not say such things as "Damn, you are looking preggers!" That will cause me to lose an eye. Instead I say "I'm sorry for everything, everywhere, every time." I respond this way to any questions she answers, no matter what it's about. "How about that weather?" "I'm sorry"
This also means that I may write a little less often the longer this pregnancy goes. I have to be careful, very careful. I don't know what will cause the accusation that I don't understand, could never understand, how can I even possibly stomach being a man in the first place.
For example, I painted the stairway this week while Hossmom was gone on a business trip. I planed to write an epic post on my daring. The ceilings are 12 feet high and the stairway increases the danger. It's a U shaped staircase too. You can't even imagine the contortions I was doing with the ladder to reach the top. At one point, I may or may not have been hanging from the light fixture with a paint brush while screaming "Victory" as my son cheered me on. I was a daredevil, Evil himself would have paid for a ticket.
But I can't write that. Because if I wrote that story I would hear this "What the hell were you thinking! You have a family you dipshit! What would the kids do if you broke your legs and couldn't be with them because then you would get cancer and die because I checked WebMD and that's what happens because you had to paint the tough spots look at the dog the dog looks sad I'm going to cry now I love you I hate you die don't die I've gotta pee It's 8 o'clock I'm going to bed."
I guarantee that's how that would play out. This is my third time my friends, I know how this works.
Last night I stayed up late to make Hossmom a snack to take to work. An amusing little thing of basil, tomato and cheese all on a toothpick. Eat it and go, gourmet right at your desk. I found them in the sink this morning, scattered, toothpicks broken, dreams shattered. I guess she doesn't like those and this is just her way of telling me.
I have two months left, just two months. I can make it just two months, right?