Week 23 and it’s at this point, I discover two things:
My wife has to now reassess her spatial awareness, and I have…a new job.
Dribbling food down the front of your shirt was hazardous in the past, and even more so, if you have a beach ball in front of you.
Which is why you should avoid the sworn enemy of the clean flowy skirt…
“The hot jam donut”
For a man, it’s pretty easy to lean forward and miss your shirt entirely. For a woman, once you clear the Himalayas, you’re pretty much in the clear. But now that you’ve added the extension to the front room, not even the hot-shoe-shuffle is gymnastics enough to avoid looking like the latest victim of a Wes Craven slasher flick, as you waddle slowly into the ladies room with jam down your arm and what looks like, an alien exploded out of your chest.
Soon, we’ll have to attach those little flags to the edge of her belly so she can see where it ends.
As for me and my new job? It’s an interesting blend of action hero and sports physiotherapist.
At the commencement of her nightly agonising leg cramps, I’m like a spring-loaded ninja who shoots out of bed like an ejector seat, grabbing her leg like Hercules wrestling an anaconda. Like a UFC cage fight, I clinch that leg and squeeze that muscle…until it taps itself out.
Which sounds tremendously heroic I know, but the reality is…it’s dark, I’m naked and half-asleep. So, it’s more like a fumbling audition for “Neked” Cirque Du Soleil.
But there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to help my little family. My lovely wife’s belly is so round and cute, it’s like a giant Kinder Surprise – The chocolate egg with a surprise inside. Only this surprise is no toy, it’s a fully formed and functioning baby.
Which is why I’m glad we don’t live in Sweden. Where I imagine, they have Ikea flat-pack pregnancies, where their bellies are just flat and you have to assemble the baby yourself with an Allen key. I’m all for DIY, but…come on.