Sometimes I'm difficult. Really, I know it's hard to believe, but it's true. I can be a bit stubborn and sullen when I either don't get my way or realize that my way wasn't necessarily the right way. Being wrong is a big turn-off for me and needing help is on the top of my "no-no" list. Mind you, that's only as it applies to me; hey, people make mistakes and I'm more than happy to lend a hand to someone in need--as long as I never have to ask for help myself.
So you can see where I'm going with this. For the past 12 weeks, I have required help at almost every turn, from fixing meals to putting on socks (yes, shut up, putting on socks). And who has been the helper during all this? For the most part it has been husband. Husband has borne the brunt of my dependence on others and the slippery slope of my resulting insanity.
Here is just a partial list of things husband has done for me in the past 84 days:
1. cooked my meals--pre- and post- gestational diabetes diagnosis
2. driven me to doctors appointments
3. brought me check-out line rag mags so I can keep up with Brangelina & TomKat
4. grocery shopped
5. done laundry
6. brought me my soy chai tea lattes, extra chai, extra hot
7. rubbed my back when it was sore
8. rubbed my butt when it was sore
9. rubbed my feet when they were sore and even put lotion on them (husband loathes lotion)
10. finished a friend's baby shower invitations for me when I went to Hotel High Risk
11. brought practicially everything I owned to Hotel High Risk so I would feel at home
12. bought me Girl Scout Cookies
13. braved the ladies underwear and cosmetics departments at Tar-jay multiple times
14. sat with me & held my hand in the scary L&D triage
15. sat with me & held my hand for the terbutaline shot rollercoaster
16. sat with me & held my hand after Dr. Dark-Cloud told me I was a sugar factory
17. held me while I cried
18. held me while I cried
19. held me while I cried....
Now, I'd like to highlight one of those herculean feats in particular...Is there anything more precious than a clueless man, basket in one hand, cell phone in the other, stumbling his way through the ladies underwear department? I like to imagine this when I am feeling down (daily--read past posts) and it always manages to make me laugh.
As my butt has expanded, my need for underwear has expanded with it. Now that my caboose is the size of a small continent, I require the much-dreaded but wonderfully comfortable "granny-panties" and husband has had the honor of making that purchase for me. I can only imagine how much he looked forward to that trip to the store. He may have toyed with the idea of packing his passport, getting in his car and heading for the border, but he never mentioned it to me, if he did.
This was when I was at Hotel High Risk and my first collection of "bigger" panties had outstayed their welcome on my ever-expanding ass and the baby had started kicking at the waist line, like someone had tied his tie too tightly. I sent husband to the store with this description: BIG. BRIEFS. COTTON.
Men are lucky--they have boxers and briefs. Not a lot to choose from and each are pretty easy to discern from the other. Not so with womens' panties--we have thongs, bikini briefs, boy cut briefs, hi-cut briefs, and about a million other variety of briefs...poor thing; I'm sure it made his head hurt. And I'm sure he couldn't meet the eyes of the little old ladies standing next to him making their own "granny-panty" selections and thinking, "Pervert." I'm even more sure he bought about a dozen other things that day to cover up the package of Hanes Her Way Cotton Hi-Cut Briefs in his cart.
And among some of those other dozen things?---pantyliners. Yes, I had to ask Saint Husband to purchase pantyliners for me. It doesn't get much manlier than that. I did receive a call during that selection--there were questions about dri-weave and wings. There was a twinge in his voice--it was the voice of a broken man; this was an aisle he'd never been down before and it was sucking the life out of him by the second. I instructed him to "grab whatever is closest; I'll make due. Just save yourself!!!!" lest my husband return to me sprouting breasts and a working female reproductive system from sheer exposure to the Always and Playtex...
The next call I received from him that trip was while he was in the cosmetics aisle--I needed a nail file and some clear polish (I can live with my gnarled old man hobbit feet for now, but a girl needs shiny fingernails). What brand of polish did I want? The vast array of options available in this aisle made the underwear selection look like a communist grocery. I tried my best to talk him through it.
At this point in my husband's emasculating trip to Target, there was apparently a woman following him and attempting to aid him in his selection of girly purchases. This struck me as odd; not that a woman would try to pick up on him, but that she'd do it while he had a cart full of womens' underwear, pantyliners and nail polish. Clearly he is either attached already or in the midst of some sort of life crisis--either way, you'd think most women would run screaming in the other direction. What can I say? Some women love a challenge. Happily, husband did not leave me for that woman, even though she can clearly make her own embarrassing purchase whereas I cannot. I must not be THAT bad, after all.
I am sure I am leaving out about a million other things husband has done for me while I have been at my 45-degree angle and when he reads this eventually he will say, "Hey, what about the time I (insert any one of a million heroic deeds here)?" Yes, yes, that was amazing, too....