Posts Tagged ‘pregnant women’


Friday September 28, 2012 is the first day I really think I got it.  Everything came together for me in one single moment of clarity.  I was punched in the face with truth, and the truth set me free.  The undisputable morsel of knowledge was this:

I am tremendously thankful that I am a man who does not have a vagina or the ability to grow life in my uterus (if I had one).

I mean, up until this point, pregnancy kind of just turned Whitney into a man….She has been gassy, burps a lot, and doesn’t sit like a lady anymore.  Let’s get this straight, she is dead sexy and glowing, but she has her Al Bundy–Married with Children moments.  I conveyed this to her the other day, but to my dismay, somehow this comment wasn’t met with the merriment I expected.

Friday, September 28, 2012, at a routine pre-labor appointment, turned close but no cigar for delivery, I realized exactly what is going down here—literally.  There were metal tools, monitors, multiple women peering into the nether regions of my wife as she sat in motorcycle rider position on a table.  I had this distinct feeling that the nurses were setting up some form of camp in my wife’s birthing area.  Seriously, it looked like they were the advanced party for a circus that is coming to town and their job was to get the big top set up ahead of the carnies’ arrival.  The sounds confirmed my suspicions.  The clanking of metal sounded like tent posts and stakes being prepared for assembly.  Nurses clamoring about grabbing straps and chains excitedly mumbling random things to one another filled the air with the same nostalgic feelings I had before the State Fair in Albuquerque, NM as a kid (minus the potential to be stabbed or killed by gang members or propositioned by local prostitutes).  Things were getting real.  And more importantly, things were getting really invasive.

I offered my hand to Whit as she lay there victim to the carnival occurring just two feet down from her head.  Whitney looked beautiful, but nervous, and rightfully so.  I needed to say something to calm her down while the nurses resurrected the biggest show on earth, so I blurted the first thing that I thought of, “Whitney, you are doing so much better than I would if the nurses were checking my cervix.”  That was it; that was the best I had.

I mean, what does a man say to a woman in this moment that really contains any meaning?  I don’t want to be a coach who just says motivational phrases.  I want to be a valuable member of the push towards life.  I don’t want to say things for the sake of saying things.  I wanted her to hear my words and know that I understand her pain.  I thought I conveyed it.  I am certain that if the nurses were checking my cervix, it would not be met with the calm look of absolute resolution that Whitney met the moment with.

Whitney was like Xena, Warrior Princess sitting there.  I was proud of her, but I cannot say that there was a moment when I thought, “let me take this pain for her.”  I think women are somehow better suited to deal with this moment than men.  Plus, I want to reiterate that Eve ate the apple, and we men just felt compelled to follow suit, because since the dawn of creation, we have just followed our ladies around hoping for a little attention, and we thought that if we were cast out of paradise at the woman’s side, she might give us a little lovin’ later.  I cannot change history…

In the end, the trip was just the beginning of what looks to be a process that is winding down.  I keep trying to coerce Whit into labor by making her do Jumping Jacks, and through a steady diet of spicy foods, but Whitney is hell bent on an October Baby—and make no if, ands, or buts about it, Whitney is this circus’s ringleader.

I just wanted you to know, because I have been holding it in for years.

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You Have to be a Good Team:  Part Two of what could be more than a two part series in this blog depending on how many people like the blog…I do it for you, people.

I have rambled on for hours in this blog about relationships.  I am sure that it is this blog that has kept many a relationship from tanking, or at least four of you that have read this and applied the vast array of knowledge I am putting out there.  For instance, those of the populace that have read my blog know that a pregnant woman with night terrors will, in fact, be able to scale three dogs, climb a post of the bed and race into the bathroom all to save herself from the nightmarish entity floating in the corner of the room (an elliptical machine that comes to life in the darkness of night).  If you read my blogs and apply them to your life, you will be more sufficiently prepared to deal with your wife’s lack of a brain once conception occurs.  This is not an insult to ladies.  On the contrary, it is a reality for ladies and their husbands. 

Take earlier this week for example.  I was tearing the house apart looking for the remote controls that belong to the living room television and entertainment center.  Whitmaster 3K is sitting on the couch massaging her baby bump.  For some reason, the movers did not pack the remotes for living room stuff in the boxes labeled “living room stuff.”  This is where I used to rely on my woman.  Whitney was my “go to wife” for all matters of things that I either misplaced or lost in general.  She could remember that I put my keys in a flower pot on the porch just because she saw them there for a split second five days ago.  Do you get what I am saying here?  I never remembered anything, because I didn’t have to.  I just woke up in the morning and looked to her for guidance. 

So, Whitney looks to me and says, “Remember the mover lady said, ‘I put the remotes for your living room TV in………..,’” and then she abruptly stops, not even attempting to search for the conclusion to her statement.  That’s it.  That’s all she had.  What good does that do for me?  As a matter of fact, why even say that sentence?  It’s like when a friend says, “I have to tell you something,” and then immediately follows it up with, “Nevermind.”  No wait, it is even more like I was like a Pirate hunting for treasure with a map that didn’t have a big ass red “X” marked at the location of the treasure.  She bamboozled me, and then just kept on massaging her belly, which was the reason for her complete inability to help me locate what I needed most at that moment in my life. 

Take a couple days before that, and I want to make sure I relay to you that this one is partly my fault, but the majority of it rests on Whitney, because I am the one writing this blog, and that is the way it works.  When we first moved into the house, it was empty and seemed so big and scary, like scenes from American Horror Story.  I brought in the gun we had been using for “Trailer Protection.”  I looked to Whitney and said very clearly, “Whitney I am putting the gun……”  I write that without an ending, because I can’t remember how I ended the sentence.  In my defense, I have never been counted on to remember my sentence endings—Whitney did all this stuff.  Here we are a week later, and there is a handgun somewhere in this house…  I know that sounds reckless, but rest assured I will find the weapon and put it in a secure place as soon as I can complete that sentence.  I am a responsible gun owner when it counts—don’t judge, the blog isn’t about me, it’s about Whitney.

Back to the title of the blog, you have to be a good team.  Utilizing a teamwork strategy where I just look through every box for the remote and Whitney massages her growing baby bump, we, together as a team located the remote.  A better example is caged in the events of yesterday morning.  Whitney was buying me a special present—major league baseball tickets.  I was pumped, and I am not going to lie, I was sitting on my butt watching her do all the work.  While on hold, she said to me, “Heath, you need to call the plumber, so he can get here and fix the dishwasher.”  She then was taken off hold and continued dealing for the gift she wanted to give me.  Here is where it gets awesome.  I started acting like a teenager who was just told to go mow the lawn.  I pouted; I huffed and puffed; I silently threw a tantrum; I made angry eyes at Whitney aka, Ruiner of My Laziness.   

By the time she was off of the phone, I was done with the tortuous job of getting a plumber here to fix something I probably could have fixed if I was a man’s man.  She looked at me and said in a motivated voice, “See, that’s what I like about us, we are a good team; we get things done, although you act like a little bitch when doing it, we still get things done.”   She saw the offense I had taken with her statement and followed up with, “And, don’t get mad, I censored what I really wanted to say.”

She’s right we are a good team. 

I just wanted you to know, because I have been holding it in for a fortnight.


Boxes are piled everywhere.  Tape being pulled from the roll makes a screeching sound that is now beginning to echo throughout the emptying house.  Through the window of the back door, two dogs watch confusedly, as movers move in and out of their home.  You can smell the cigarette smoke clinging to the workers as they pass by you weaving in and out of the crooked towers of boxes.  Deadlines:  must meet deadlines.  A small lingering anxiety lurks just above the Phillips’ House.  Moving day is here and you cannot run from yourself today.  Couches are gone; you just ate a chicken breast while dipping it in hot wing sauce.  You are trying to eat everything in your kitchen which makes for very random combinations of food.  For mid morning snack, you had olives meant for martinis and shredded cheese from a bag.  Delicious.  You next think about putting warm water and rice in your mouth and holding it there until it softens just to get rid of the rice you have acquired over two years.

Why do you have so much vegetable oil?  These are the moments you curse the invention of Sam’s Club.    You think to yourself, “How many children are starving to death right now that would love to have the vegetable oil excesses that you have in your pantry?”  Will I be arrested if I go out back and pour the vegetable oil into the yard?  It is a vegetable… 

The second you see them pack up your treadmill you think, “damn, I could be running right now.”  The following second you spend trying to remember the last time you used the treadmill for running and not just hanging clothes on while you ironed. 

All is not lost.  You have a plan, and your plan is stellar.  You are going to put your pregnant wife, Shepherd Dog, Blue Heeler, and three legged Chihuahua right into the middle of a three day road trip.  To make things easier, you have a 33ft RV that when actually placed on the road feels 50 feet plus.  Your RV has been nothing but a source of excitement between your pregnoid wife and you, but you think to yourself, “that’s just because we haven’t spent enough time in it….yeah, that’s it.”  You ask the truck driver packing your stuff up for advice on pulling a trailer and the advice he offers you leaves you wanting.  His answer, “Don’t piss the truck drivers off.”  The second he says this, you think of the movie Joyride where an evil and vengeful trucker takes his wrath out on a couple drivers. 

Luckily for you, your wife is pretty good at being pregnant.  Yesterday, she watched the packers loading things into boxes and fell asleep because of how hard the work was.  Later, you overhear her say to the neighbor, “I know I look like I just woke up, but the movers are here and it has been exhausting.”  At this moment, you flash back to earlier when she was sleeping next to you.  She was snoring and the movers actually tried to work in silence out of fear of a pregnant woman, which I understand.  The movers are here to do a service for you and you appreciate them for it.  When one of the mover’s phone rings, she apologizes profusely.  You say to her, “no, it is okay, you are working hard.”  She replies immediately and without thought, “Sir, I have been pregnant, and she deserves some quiet while she sleeps.”  You realize at that moment the following:  All women who have bore children are naturally against all men who haven’t. 

All women who have bore children are naturally against all men who have not.  What a great sentence.  You take another bite of your chicken and this time you dip it into mayonnaise.  You do this because you have two jars of mayonnaise, and you have to get rid of it.  You think about leaving a box of random noodles (you find six boxes of angel hair pasta), mayonnaise, and vegetable oil on your neighbor’s doorstep and then running.  You wish that your wife was here so you could watch her pregnantly trip over boxes and try and fit through areas her belly won’t let her smoothly travel through, but she is not, because she has abandoned you for girl time with friends.  All friends of women who have bore children who have also bore children themselves are natural enemies of all men who have not.

You look down and dip your chicken into vegetable oil, because you have to get rid of it…