My poor, oblivious husband

My husband is an amazing man.  He cooks.  He cleans.  He is capable of some basic home improvements but knows his limits well enough to not destroy our home/cost us way too much money for something we’ll need a pro to fix anyway.  He gardens.  He has amazing taste in music.  He is funny.  He is smart.  He is loving. 

Unfortunately my husband has one very distinct handicap for dealing with a pregnant wife – he doesn’t really “believe” in illness.  He’s the sort of guy who says “bless you” the first time you sneeze and “stop it” the second time.  This does not bode well for being sympathetic to or putting up with a pregnant wife, especially when said pregnant wife is little ole hypochondriac, read-too-much-medical-stuff-for-my-own-good, general wus me. 

Symptom 1 – Morning Sickness 

So far I have been blessed with having the world’s mildest case of morning sickness.  I’ve only gotten sick twice, and my general nausea can be abated as long as I avoid vinegar (my sudden, pregnancy-related aversion that makes me ill just thinking about pickles or salads) and eat something every four hours (although every three is better).  I don’t need to eat a lot – a granola bar will buy me an extra hour, and a half sandwich gets me through a good three hours, but I absolutely need to eat or I hit no-man’s land, where I am too nauseated to eat anything, but I know the terrible discomfort won’t pass unless I get something into my stomach.  I also become pickier the longer it’s been since I’ve last eaten, as my mild aversions get magnified to closer I get to the four hour mark. 

Last night was a perfect example of testing the four hour wall.

A vendor that my husband is friendly with (we’ll call him B) stopped by for a beer after work.  No problem, especially as he brought cheese, and not just cheese but goat cheese with pepper jelly.  I dove into the cheese as subtly as I could, partly because I think goat cheese is possibly the best thing ever, and partly because I knew having a house guest meant I probably wouldn’t get to eat dinner until 8 PM, with my last snack having been a yogurt at around 4 PM.  The boucheron would buy me the hour I needed.

Unfortunately it turns out B is quite the talker.  With his wife and kids out of town for the week, he had all the time in the world to wax poetic about food sales and previous restaurant experiences and long-haired days of old (the early 90’s), all while I fidgeted knowing all too well that it was already 8:30 (8:30!) and my stomach was beginning to revolt.  With it being a “school night” and all, I knew I couldn’t sleep in to combat the next morning’s gastrointestinal chaos, so I attempted to take action.  I mentioned that I just absolutely needed to eat and was anyone else hungry and the following exchange occurred:

Hubby: What are you in the mood for?

Me: I can just grab some take out so we don’t need to cook or make a mess.  I’m kinda in the mood for Indian but I know you hate it.

Hubby: How about Basil?  I think we have their take out menu.

At which point I forage for the menu, and once I determine that it is long lost, I head up to the computer and print out their online menu.  I then return to the conversation downstairs and try for ten minutes to casually interrupt my husband to get him to pick what he wants:

Hubby: I don’t think I really want anything.

Me: Well then why did I just grab this menu – if you aren’t eating, I could have gotten Indian already. (head to kitchen to call in order)

Hubby to B: Do you feel like pizza?

Me: Wait, so are you or aren’t you hungry?

Hubby: How about you just get four things from the Indian place.

Wait, what?  Okay, you’re either hungry or not, but there is NO vacillating about food when a pregnant lady is now 45 minutes past her food witching hour.  This is war, people. Indecision kills. 

Luckily, I do get my food of choice and am chowing down by 9:30, a full hour and a half too late but better than never.  I manage to get a half plate of food down and while I know I will pay for this delay the next morning, full scale disaster has been averted.

Symptom 2 – Exhaustion

The next most popular issue of the first trimester is a kind of tiredness that sweeps over you like an avalanche.  So far this usually means I am a complete moron at work as of about 2 PM, and I now want to go to bed at 9, but try to hold off until at least 9:30 or 10.  As I was still chewing as of 10 PM last night, I was determined to go to bed the moment the last forkful of food hit my mouth.  Well, make that after I’d folded some laundry, so my body would have some time to digest the spicy food and therefore skip the heartburn I would inevitably feel for laying down moments after eating aloo gobi “crazy Indian hot” as I tend to order it. 

At this point B, the hubby and another guest are now dipping into what is likely the fifth bottle of wine for the night, which is right around the level of inebriated that leads my husband to “educate” any rookies on the nuances of burgundy.  This involves dragging said person up to the office which is strewn with maps of various french wine regions and breaking out the really bulbous stemware.  Coincidentally, it also frequently leads to my husband raiding his iTunes collections for some of his more obscure, 1920’s era music (last night he decided early Zydeco and proto-bluegrass were in order), as this will also enable him to keep on his professor’s cap when the victim’s, err guest’s interest in the Cote d’Or wains. 

Unfortunately, said office is located adjacent to our bedroom.  And our bedroom door doesn’t full close thanks to a rather full over-the-door style coat rack covered in bathrobes and belts. 

Also, Roscoe Holcomb may have the world’s most impressive ability to string together blood-curdlingly irritating notes, either as part of or inspite of his position of as the father of bluegrass.  In case you think this may be one of the many times I am prone to exaggeration, just listen to Trouble in Mind.  Sure, it’s an intense, deeply soulful and authentically Appalachian song, but OH MY GOD when he hits that note on the word “mind” and then the other one on the word “won’t” in the next phrase, I can feel the glass in the room start to tremor.  This is not something you can just tune out while trying to fall asleep – these pitches invade your joints. 

And this song, folks, This Song is the one my dear husband chooses to play after I told him the Zydeco was a little much for me to listen to through the wall. 

The poor man has no idea. 


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