talking third trimester blues
o say can you tree
i apologize for the dearth of news here. frere nice guy was in town this weekend. (he spent an uncomfortably long period of time with his good hand on my wife's stomach. at least, it was uncomfortable for me. granted. i was the only one who was uncomfortable with it. some people were verrrrry comfortable indeed.) last weekend another friend was in town. a single friend. who was thrilled to see mrs nice guy. and then she was glad that she wasn't herself mrs nice guy, much less married to me. you know how it is ... you live in the best city ever and people who never expressed any sort of affection for you all of a sudden want to visit. mr nice guy can see through all of you easier than if you were cellophane, people.
but here's the newest in mrs nice guy technology: the third trimester sucks. she has only one pair of pants left. nothing else fits. she is reacquainting herself with nausea because, you know, she didn't get close enough to it in the first trimester. parts of her leak. she "hates" me. the golden era of pregnancy has ended.
here are some facts. while your wife is entering that phase of horribly unpleasant cadillac-sized pregnancy, someone has to:
- figure out finances
- schedule birthing AND newborn classes
- register for the surprise baby shower which is no longer a surprise (a very long and totally-free-of-rage story)
- sign up for a hospital tour
- start buying important things like cribs and changing tables and breast pumps and strollers
- find a pediatrician
- think about "names"
- pick out birth announcements
- create a birth plan
you know who gets stuck with all of this work? that's right: the pregnant one. why is that? because, much like the third trimester, husbands suck.