Someone Save Him!

I am trying desperately not to physically harm my husband. Disclaimer: I am apologizing to my sweet mother-in-law right now in case she gets a hold of this blog for the blatant disrespect I am showing her first born. I can’t help it. It’s the blog or a butcher knife. For now, I’m still typing.

In THIRTEEN freakin’ days (DAYS, DAYS) I am going to have my third child. If you have been pregnant, you know that this is not the most pleasant time of life. I am trying to be cheerful, I am trying to focus and most importantly “enjoy the process.” Whoever those dingbats are that enjoyed the process, I would love to know what you enjoyed so much. I think you are freaks and clearly in the same category as the cutters. Something is just wrong.

My husband, who none of you will ever know because remember the earlier post about me not being able to print his name because he doesn’t want his high finance people to Google this nonsense, is driving me crazy. Yes, mother, I know this is a run on sentence. Two days ago, the oldest of my children (husband) announced that he was finally ready for the baby. You’re ready for the baby? What the hell are you ready for? You’ve done NOTHING. For nine months I have barfed, sat at the doctors office forever because they are backed up trying desperately to observe their no cell phone policy, endured enough heartburn to bring down Superman’s tower of steel, been to Target 10 billion times for the g.d. baby warmers and crap that my baby nurse has on the longest list anyone has ever seen and YOU ARE READY FOR THE BABY??? You do not come home before 9 o’clock every night. (This is the man who SWEARS his cell phone is on at all times yet can’t “get reception” for hours on end.) I am going to build a flippin’ cell phone tower in his pants so that he can get reception in a cave.

Because my husband cannot spend five cents without a national parade, I very clearly communicated what my expectations of an appropriate a push present for this baby are, the SECOND I got the positive pregnancy test. I told him to save a dollar a day, eat tuna fish sandwiches, whatever he felt were the appropriate measures to give me this particular treat I wanted for this baby. (Note to all: this is not a gentleman who is experiencing financial challenges so don’t even start with me. He is the only American or international citizen who is completely debt free yet feels that he should apply for national financial aid on an emergency basis.) So what does he tell me on Thursday? That he’ll use his (HIS) tax refund (do the math, when will that come oh Holy government – May-ish if we’re lucky? My new baby will be walking) to get our hardwood floors redone, instead of the push present because then it will be something that we can both enjoy. Little Thelma will of course be thrilled to know that she is coming home to a psychotic, jewelry free mother with glossy floors?? If I’m lucky, the noxious fumes will kill me quickly.

The final straw? Upon his 9 o’clock arrival last night he decides that our two year old should just stay up and play with him (him with the assistance of the nanny of course in case the baby should actually need something done). He proceeds to feed him cupcakes and have him watch tv until 11. As we are approaching the final diaper change of the evening, we realize we are out of diapers. Of course we are out of diapers. My little one thinks this is just the best news ever. I however, being forward thinker and 24/7 Target shopper that I am, have a back up stash of swimming underpants and Pull Ups for the miraculous day when the little guy can take charge of his own noodle. My husband exclaims that he’ll just run out for some diapers. Ah, no you will not run anywhere. You will sit your sweet a– down right here and watch your child while I duct tape him to a dish towel if I have to. You are going to stay right here. (He keeps protesting that he wants to buy diapers. Who exactly is he rendezvousing with at the market? This is insanity. If it’s an affair he’s having, this would be great news. The first thing I will do is give the little tramp his social security number so she can destroy his identify – his all time biggest life fear.) I give up and take my Stouffer’s Macaroni and Cheese (jumbo – a pregnancy must) to bed with an apple.

So this morning, full of piss and vinegar I start blogging (the two year old is sleeping off his sugar coma at 10am along with Daddy who is cheerfully snoring in his room.) I calmly blogged about ice cubes until I tried to do a Google image search for mini grilled cheese sandwiches. This turned up nothing but billions of ugly, sloppy cheese on bread. Enter husband, up from his slumber, announcing, on Saturday, the ONE day when we’ll have ten seconds together that he is going to get diapers. I give up for the second time in 13 hours. I am now going to search for the perfect mini hamburger online so as not to take those diapers and shove them down his esophagus.

Morale of the story: Husbands, when your wife is about to give birth you stay put. You gaze at her lovingly. You do NOTHING that does not involve you keeping yourself and your family alive. You do not go to the gym unless your wife wants you to go, then leave immediately. When you return, you show up having picked her favorite flowers. You do not talk about pending guys’ trips, “Would it be ok if I just stopped off at Joe’s for a quick cocktail?”, networking meetings or your wife’s spending. Do this at your own peril. Women, if you harm your man, show the judge this blog and tell him you are not alone.

Now if anyone sees my husband at Target and he’s hitting on the cashier, let me know. I’ve got Gloria Allred on speed dial. Now that’ll save him some cash.

Photo courtesy of www.KingArthurFlour.com