The Sympathetic Boyfriend
In the movie version of my pregnancy, the one where I glowed, had time (even the energy would be nice) to do pre-natal yoga, and floated serenely in chiffon, my movie version boyfriend played a prominent part.
He would be fascinated, in awe that I was carrying his baby (the rest of the world would just be in shock that he had found anyone willing to commit to him for a lifetime and even more dangerously, extend his gene pool), adoring, considerate, compassionate, well read on pregnancy, and so eager to get the nursery decorated that I would have to put weights in his trousers to slow him down.
Oh yes, and I would get flowers every week.
Now, how do I put this tactfully ? What I got, and what I knew I had before I entered into this, is Shaun. His friends love him to pieces, but none of them would want to live with him, and frankly are amazed that he has found someone who can. He is loyal, witty, outgoing, chattier than a gaggle of old ladies, and has eyes that just spill over with laughter.
I tell you all this because he is not a movie star boyfriend. He is a real life boyfriend. And unfortunately, that means in real life he is my boyfriend.
I’m sick of this. I can’t put up with you being like this much longer. Why can’t you put your own socks on ? How come other women manage when they’re pregnant ? I hope you’re not like this for the whole 9 months.
Just some of the gems my Sympathetic Boyfriend has flung my way. If pregnancy was a Mars and Venus book, it would tell you this is because of the male urge to solve problems, and because there is no solution to the misery of my pregnancy, Shaun has no other coping mechanism. It would also tell you that all Venus needs is for Mars to hold her and tell her he loves her.
Do you think anybody has done any research on how many pictures of cars or naked women it would require for men to pick up one of those books and read it?
To be fair, he has done some nice things, and not all of them under duress. He has shaved my legs. He has rubbed cream into my tummy (this with a grouchy scowl rather than the erotic leer of my movie star boyfriend) and he has spent most of my pregnancy asleep on a camp bed in a separate room because my snoring would give Godzilla a run for his money. He has dressed me, helped me into and out of the shower, and unwedged me from the bath on more than one occasion.
But his supreme moment came when he performed a heroic duty. I had to ask, and frankly, I was surprised he accepted the challenge.
Once you are more than 4 months pregnant, you start to lose sight of your lower body. You can no longer see the fine hairs from your belly button to your crotch, its difficult to reach to do your wee-wee sample, you can’t bend to cut your toe-nails. Me, I have a tattoo – Shaun’s initials, aah – on my hip, but it’s been missing in action, presumed lost in overhang, for months now.
Your pubic hair becomes wirier and darker, and …. Eeeek has suddenly grown overnight as if an elf had come and sprinkled you with Rapid-Grow. A contorted look in the mirror confirms that my pubic area looks like Z Z Top, and it has to go. Normally, I would reach down with a pair of scissors and snip but – hey, I no longer have any bendability.
“Shaaauuuun”.
Unfortunately, he says something that makes me laugh and my weak bladder dribbles over the hand holding the scissors. I am torn between tears of laughter and a growing awareness that there can be too much intimacy. But hey, my real life boyfriend just became a movie star.
