By Dave Yoo
People always correct me when I tell them that “we’re” pregnant. “You mean your wife’s pregnant,” they say, thinking I’m selfishly, insultingly assuming half the burden, as if I’m the type of person who likes to take undue credit for someone else’s successes. It’s not like I’m prone to unfairly pluralizing statements for my own benefit, like, “We got into grad school,” or “We’ve got swine flu!” These people are wrong, anyway, and all these pregnancy books that address the trials and tribulations the female has to endure are biased; in our case, I’ve felt each and every symptom just as much as she has, if not more:
Back Pain: Pregnant women experience back pain, as they carry around 30-plus extra pounds of weight in the front. But my back has gotten 10 times worse than hers thanks to the fact that she now sleeps with a half-dozen pillows every night. We’ve gone from sharing the bed to me scrunched against my end, so much that when I wake up my right foot is firmly planted on the carpet beside the bed.
Swollen Feet: I’ve had to take on all the chores around the house, and now my feet are routinely puffed up by the end of the day.
Sore Cervix: Sure, I don’t have a cervix to speak of, but in my effort to finish up a year’s worth of work in half the time (in anticipation of my impending baby-watching duties), I’ve actually developed hemorrhoids from sitting in a chair 10 hours a day. As a result, I always have a sore ass.
Cramping: Largely the result of feeling incredibly nervous about the prospect of becoming a father, I now experience these jabbing pains in my stomach. I recently doubled over in abject pain at the grocery store, and a stranger asked if I was OK. “I’m fine,” I muttered. “It’s just a contraction.”
So as you can see, I’ve experienced all the same symptoms of being pregnant as my wife, which I feel gives me the right to say: “We’re pregnant.” Anyone who thinks otherwise can kiss my perpetually tender, grossly enlarged (since I’ve gained a lot of weight recently) derrière.
Postscript: I woke up early this morning with the urge to do the dishes and wipe down the kitchen counters. My wife foggily watched me go at it. “It’s like you’re nesting,” she said, referring to another aspect of pregnancy: the instinctual need for women to prepare a baby’s environment just prior to delivery.
“Actually, I’ve been doing this stuff for months,” I snapped. “Women probably ‘nest’ right before they go into labor because they feel guilty that they haven’t done a damn thing around the house for nine months.”
Sigh, there’s another bit of proof that we’re pregnant: I feel so emotional these days.
