I have a wisdom tooth growing through and the pressure on my gum is causing untold pain.
“You have no idea how much pain I’m in.” I mutter glumly, nursing my jaw. Cue a stare that would make a nun cry.
I said 'cry', but I forgive you, because you're old and energetic.
I suppose it is a tad unfair, this whole pregnancy thing. My part lasts – and I quote my beloved wife – “90 seconds”, whilst she has to endure discomfort, aches and the odd bout of diarrhoea for nine months, which culminates in potentially hours of excruciating pain. Then, there will be further pain whilst breastfeeding, not to mention stitches, mastitis and the threat of post-natal depression. Oh, and there’ll be a baby to look after.
And there's that nagging risk that your baby could be a ginge.
As I try to avoid the Medusa-like glower of my beautiful wife and take a long hard think about what I’ve done, I can’t help but feel ongoing and immense sympathy for what she is going through without, to be fair, excessive whinging. She could easily have stayed in bed most days, like back in the medieval era, but instead she has remained active and always put Isaac first, and so for that I give a hearty applause. Well, I would – but I seem to be frozen with fear.
That’s not to say that I still don’t find some of her discomfort and cumbersomeness rather entertaining, in a vaguely mean kind of way. For example, the big fancy maternity pillow came this week, and whenever I see Jess turning over in bed grappling this ridiculously large thing, I can’t help but think of the late great Steve Irwin wrestling crocodiles. I realise that sounds a bit insensitive and I do sympathise, but don’t judge me: you laugh when children and old people fall down, I bet.
"What a great day this will be! First, croc wrestling, then a gentle swim with some rays..."
Your mrs is now in the third trimester, which means she’s more or less on the home straight. Your baby is composed of around 2 to 3% body fat, which is pretty much what I was like before I got married and didn’t have to keep trying to impress. The lungs are capable of breathing air now, but if premature labour meant you met your little one early, it would still struggle to breathe without the aid of medical equipment. He or she can now recognise your voice, so the more you talk to it, the better. Their eyebrows continue to grow, hopefully independently, thus avoiding a rather revolting monobrow situation, although that would be kind of cool.
"Hola! Eez time for nappy change, no?"
