Do MEN deserve a push present? Absolutely. A medal even.
Before you get your panties in a bunch, please hear me out. Men cannot help their ignorance of our physical feats. They just can’t. I’m advocating for their worthiness based solely on their actual survival of the whole nine month situation. Most of these poor bumbling creatures never have a real clue of what they’re in for until it’s far too late. Women enter pregnancy enchanted with a fair portrait of the harsh struggles and immeasurable rewards involved. Men enter it like a clay pigeon sporting a naive smile. Is my petition beginning to make sense? You need some proof. I asked my husband and a few other bumbling creatures for their introspect on the pregnancy experiences they’ve lived to tell about. I give you the thoughts from their actual brains below. Bless their little pigeon hearts.
One day, my sweet darling wife started growing this little human thing in her stomach. It’s pretty cool how she can grow things. I tell her she looks beautiful.
My sweet darling wife is growing a human and she cries a lot. I ask her what’s the matter. Didn’t you dream of this, sweetie?
I discover that I am an imbecile, and guilty of her suffering, and that I deserve to die.
My darling wife is growing a human and she thinks she’s fat. That’s silly, obviously she’s growing a human. I offer to buy her a new preggy wardrobe.
She tries to kill me.
My darling wife is growing a human thing, and it’s getting bigger, and she feeds it strange food. She hysterically searches for pineapple-hot-sauce-pizza-flavored ice cream. The grocery store is *shockingly* fresh out.
She makes a public scene with the manager that we get to re-live on the local evening news.
My darling wife complains that her new wardrobe is getting too tight. She is crying to me from the couch, at midnight, as she stuffs herself with loaded nachos, while watching Cupcake Wars. I offer to fix her a lean turkey sandwich.
Despite her belly, she somehow manages to clock me in the head with a sparkly ballet flat.
My darling wife is growing a human thing and when we are being intimate, it tries to fist bump me. I ask if we can just cuddle?
Two months of solitude.
My darling wife eats everything in sight. No chicken wing or candy bar or late night drive-thru within a one hour radius is safe from her Hoover powers.
I’m not quite dumb enough to comment.
My darling wife is hunched over in early labor contractions. I offer to rub her shoulders.
She has a look of, Why yes sweetie, please come tend to me, come closer and put your hands on my shoulders … so she can dig her claws into my flesh and again remind me of my very fragile life. Then puke on my shirt.
My darling wife is excitedly describing to me the look and purpose of a bloody show.
I’m trying not to puke on her shirt.
We’ve finally made it to the hospital and the little human thing is going to be here soon.
I’m freaking mortified.
My darling wife is in a world of pain. They want to put a gleaming harpoon into her spine. The sword-ologist looks at me with a smile and says something about how she’s gonna love this.
I can’t feel my legs. I can’t breathe. Are they freaking nuts?!?!?!? Is she gonna live? I’m gonna die.
Things are “progressing.”
Progress looks like: my wife is dying.
They’re telling her to push. And breathe. And everyone is holding and soothing and guiding her.
I’m freaking mortified. Where’s my nurse?! Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out.
An adorable little alien is born and my wife is still alive. Bravo Honey!
Dang, Cosby was right. I’ll keep this to myself.
And there you have it folks. The pigeon thoughts. Can someone please get the poor guy a push present?