We're all in This Together?

When B and I found out that a certain blastocyst had implanted into the rich lining of my uterus for the second time around, we enjoyed telling people that "we were pregnant again." While technically only someone with a uterus can be pregnant, at the time, I was thrilled to share the experience with my husband.

Flash forward 30 and some odd weeks, and my views on the pronoun "we" have shifted big time. Maybe its the hormones coupled with exhaustion, but a few days ago, I overheard B telling someone on the phone that "We are still pregnant." I wanted to sit on him: We are not pregnant. I am pregnant. We are not jolted awake every few hours in terror that something has happened to Little Homie. We are not unable to fall back asleep until we feel a few reassuring kicks. We have not scaled new heights of obsessive-compulsive paranoia about food borne illnesses and germs, and we do not have cracked and dry old man hands from scouring (and scouring and scouring and scouring) with antibacterial soap and hot water. We do not have stretch marks and hideous, itchy welts on our abdomen. We do not have leg cramps that make us feel as though we are being devoured by fire ants. We do not have nipples the size of dinner plates. We have not gained 37 1/2 pounds. We are not mentally preparing for the inevitability of blowing out our vagina yet again, or worse, being sliced open like a frog in biology class. We have not mastered the delicate art of contortion while trying to shave our legs, because -- G'd forbid -- we have to relive the humiliation of being examined at Cedars Labor and Delivery with a veritable jungle growing on our gammes.

We can kiss my pregnant ass.

Woah there.

Clearly I need to take a deep breath.

I think its fair to say that we've reached that "get this fucking baby out of me" stage of pregnancy, where rational thinking has been long outgrown like almost all of my maternity pants.

Poor B.

In fairness, he has put up with a lot of crap over the past 37 1/2 weeks, including but not limited to my monumental mood-swings and temper tantrums. Panic attacks. Midnight drives to Albertsons for more Haagen Dazs. He wakes up early every morning and takes M out on incredible adventure walks so I can grab an extra 20 minutes of sleep. He edits my blog posts, and doesn't complain when I write about him. He makes me laugh. And he makes the best chocolate chip pancakes. Ever. Trust me. Ok, I'll give in. He has earned the right to use the plural pronoun...

Hopefully -- sooner rather than later -- we will have a happy, healthy baby in our arms.