My shopper’s high was slightly waning after the unpleasant reality check; you know the part where I realized not every husband celebrates when their wife spends $1,000 on a new maternity wardrobe.  If your jaw just dropped and you are thinking I am frivolous and deserve for my husband to freak out let me put it into perspective for you; Olian black pants $65, J Brand maternity skinny jeans $189, Paige maternity Westbourne jeans $202, Ingrid and Isabel leggings $52 and camis $32 + $32, 3 Michael Stars maternity tees at $50 each, 2 Maternal America tops $80 + $72 and a NOM basic black dress $120.  So take that and see if you can get dressed for 9 months with 12 new things.  No way, no how.  In fact, Jessica, my new favorite sales associate, is calling me when the fall fashions arrive. 

Anyway, let’s get focused here because my real problem is hubs, not you or your jaw that hit the floor.  Husband was not thrilled, you already knew that, but I had still been grasping to a small strand of hope.  Picturing a scenario where I tell him I blew a grand and he says model all your new clothes and I will tell you how pretty you look.  Then I remembered my husband is a straight man.  Instead it was more like we have a budget, we have goals, the long term, yadda yadda, he lost me somewhere between car seats and college.  I let him finish, then I asked if he knew what it was like to grow out of 90% of your clothes in 20 weeks.  Silence.  This is when I really got going.

On a side note, I don’t believe in keeping score in a marriage.  We’re a team, he does a little, I do a little and  it’s all for the greater good.  Pregnancy just is not one of those times where the team philosophy works.  It’s more like I do the work and we both reap the benefits. 

He had to get me pregnant.  I’m not going to spell it out for you, let’s just say I don’t call that giving it up for the greater good, more like just giving it up more often than he has since that first year of dating (or maybe since college, but that was before me and before me doesn’t exist).  When the test struck positive he gained a designated driver.  That is where his list ends and mine begins.

So far I have gained 16 pounds, an aversion to chicken, a close relationship with the toilet from 10 a.m. to 4 p.m., slightly swollen ankles, acne on my back, an absurdly frequent urge to pee, thighs that touch and rub together when I walk, hot flashes, cellulite, stretch marks, porn star boobs (Pam Anderson can keep them as far as I am concerned), midnight cravings for pancakes with chocolate ice cream and heartburn.

So far I have lost the ability to run for more than thirty minutes, sleep on my stomach (the way that I have for 30 years), the enjoyment that was that first cup of coffee every morning (I don’t bother with decaf), wine, blue cheese and guilt free turkey sandwiches (BTW, that lunch meat thing was news to me), my waistline and pretty much my body as I knew it, and the freedom to take an aspirin when I have a headache.

By the end of my rant hubs had programmed Jessica’s phone number into his blackberry; handy for the next time he is crazy enough to question the Pregnant Girl.