Compared to the horror stories of pregnancies of women near and dear, I consider myself to be pretty lucky. I am able to eat things other than brownies and potato chips. I haven't thrown up more than once in a day. I have not been hospitalized for dehydration and pumped full of magnesium. I've been tired, yes. Queasy, of course.
And emotional?
Well, that's a given.
In all reality, though, the emotionality has been pretty even keel, but last week I had an episode that I find too amusing not to share.
One night, I was in the bed waiting for Fred to finish brushing his teeth so we could fall asleep together. Our cat, Fuzz, was snuggling next to me. I went to pet Fuzz, and he rolled away and walked out of the room.
Moments later, Fred found me curled up in the dark, bawling into my pillow. He asked me what was wrong, and I explained to him that Fuzz didn't love me, that he stopped cuddling with me, and that that really hurt my feelings. At the time, I knew it sounded ridiculous. It's like when you have a horrible nightmare, but the next day when you're talking about it, you realize how completely moronic the whole thing sounds--and yet, the nightmare really was that horrendous, and Fuzz really did severely break my heart!
Fred sat with me for ten, fifteen minutes, listening to me speak between hiccups, hugging and assuring me that our cat loves me and that he didn't mean to snub me. "I'm going to finish flossing, and then I'll be back," Fred said once I'd calmed down a bit.
After a few minutes, Fred came back into the bedroom. He climbed under the covers, and I snuggled in the crook of his arm.
"Rachy," he whispered.
"Yeah?"
"Fuzz just told me he's really sorry for hurting your feelings."
I'm really, really glad I'm going to have a baby with that guy. He knows just how to handle these moments--with sensitivity, genuine concern, and humor. I love you, Fred.
