The Breaking Point

I think I have finally answered the age-old question:  How long can the husband of an expectant wife keep his sanity?  The answer would be seven and a half months.

Chris is revolting against my pregnancy.  Its not a problem with me or with the Bean, I think he has just finally had his limit of fetching, caring, and empathizing.  I’ve noticed that there have been less foot rubs in the past couple weeks.  And where he used to tuck me in bed every night, helping me strategically place each of my 1,000 pillows, he now just shoves the pillows here and there, tosses a kiss in my direction, and heads downstairs to the television.

I don’t blame him for this.  Not at all.  In case you hadn’t guessed, I am not exactly the strong and silent type.  I’m more the hurl myself on the floor, yelling “WHY DOES GOD HATE ME” type.  Chris has put up with his fair amount of complaining and moaning and crying, so I’m not surprised that he has hit his breaking point.  I’m just surprised at what it was the pushed him over the edge.

This morning I woke up earlier than him, like always.  I took the dogs downstairs, like always.  I fed them and had a bowl of cereal myself, like always.  And then I settled in with a good book, like always.

Enter Chris.

About an hour later Chris wakes up and comes downstairs, seemlingly happy.  Until he goes into the kitchen.  And we are out of bread.  And I thought the world was going to end.

“Where’s the bread?!?!?!”  he frantically shouted.

“I think we’re out,” I replied, distracted by my book.

“WHAT??!?!!”  he screeched.  “HOW COULD WE BE OUT OF BREAD?  HOW AM I GOING TO HAVE MY TWO SLICES OF PEANUT BUTTER TOAST?  YOU CAN’T MAKE TOAST WITHOUT BREAD!  WHERE’S THE BREAD?  WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?”

Hearing the hysteria in his voice, I suggested that he throw on some shoes and run up to the gas station to get a loaf of bread to make his beloved peanut butter toast.  To which he snapped back, “You go get it!”  (Note:  He said this laughingly, but he was 100% serious.)

Now, I love Chris, but I’m not about to drag my pregnant, pajama’d belly up to the gas station for him when he is perfectly capable of going himself.  If he were impaired – say unconscious or trapped under a large bookshelf – I may had offered my assistance.  But this was not the case.

“I would do it for you!” he insisted.  “Go get me bread!”

“No!” I yelled.

“Why not?!?!” he demanded.

And then I uttered the line that pushed him over the edge.  “Because I’m pregnant!”

“You’re not THAT pregnant!” he responded.  “Go get me bread!”

At this point, I looked down at the book I was holding.  It is a book on the No-Cry Method of parenting, which teaches you different ways to soothe a crying baby.  Chris was sitting next to me on the couch – whining uncontrollably for no apparent reason and didn’t seem to be able to calm himself.  All symptoms of colic.

So, I calmly and confidently lean over and take him in my arms, firmly yet gently, as the book instructs.  And I begin to rock him back and forth in a repetitious manner which simulates the lulls of the womb.  And lastly, I start making “swishing” noises.

And wonder of all wonders, he stops moaning!  Just like the baby book said he would!

So, we sit there for a minute rocking back and forth and then from somewhere within my arms, I hear him whimper quietly, “Please go get me bread.”

I knew parenting books were a crock of crap.