John Wayne and Suppositories: Pregnancy 101

Our lives began to change long before we held our child in our arms.

There was the actual pregnancy to deal with, which we both approached in radically different ways. My husband viewed my changing body with a sense of awe and pride. In his mind, my shifting silhouette was proof positive that his boys could swim, that he was the consummate manly man. Yup, a few minutes of unprotected sleepy sex, and Scott was suddenly John Wayne. He walked with a noticeable swagger and drew out his vowels in an unnatural way. I drew the line at him wearing a cowboy hat, cap guns and a leatherette holster to bed over his cowboy pajamas.

I, on the other hand, viewed my changing body with a mixture of overwhelming nausea and crippling constipation. To be fair, I will note that there was a certain amount of not quite unwelcome popularity associated with the pregnancy. It was something like being a minor celebrity. People would point and whisper in awe as I passed and, though no one necessarily took my picture or asked for autographs, I was occasionally graced with certain perks, like a pro-bono biscotti at Starbucks. (I know, I know, you’re jealous. A free biscotti at Starbucks?! Some people just have it all….)

But like A-list celebrities who assume that the paparazzi will always love them, the novelty of the attention soon grew old. When my favorite clothier had the sale of all sales, I could only look on in envy at the ecstatic women clutching numerous bags of their discounted clothing and accessories, uncertain of what my size would be post child and whether the current styles would even still be “in” at the time I might be able to fit into non-maternity clothes. When a group of coworkers drooled over a new line of sleek patent leather footwear with a long, slim heel, I could only participate vicariously and pout at my swollen feet. Even luxury items like scented body lotions were out of the question because they would send me rushing to the nearest bathroom to relieve the contents of my perpetually queasy stomach. Never had I needed a drink more and never, not even as a seventeen year old college student at a state university, had a drink been further out of my reach.

While my husband spent hours in the mirror attempting to imitate John Wayne’s gait and drawl (leaving many to wonder whether he had suffered a stroke), I found myself feeling increasingly uncomfortable and alone. I had never noticed how many non-pregnant women with thighs that don’t touch (Can you believe it??) are out there in the world. Suddenly, my neighborhood had turned into a population of hard-bodies. While I lumbered along on my swollen feet, the retired couple next door took up jogging and lifting weights. Where would it end? I longed for a support group of similarly swelling, nauseous, and constipated women, but I must have been the only pregnant woman in the Chicagoland area that year because I swear I was alone in my hugeness-- no wonder my OB/GYN was so nice to me; he needed my business.

At my lowest (and largest), I wondered whether my husband longed for another, more slender woman who didn’t smell like vomit or need to use suppositories. Every woman began to look like a potential husband stealer. I didn’t even trust my husband to be alone with my anemic, elderly great aunt. In the hormonal sea that is pregnancy, I became neurotic and jealous of all things slender. I knew things were getting bad when I called a long, slim banana in the produce section of my local grocery a man hungry witch (only I didn't say "witch"). It was time to swallow my pride and own up to my husband about my growing fears. I just couldn’t keep tormenting produce in this way.

Let me take a moment to describe my husband. He is one of those easy-going, gorgeous guys that women would love to steal but can’t because he is too oblivious and wholesome to notice their advances. He is tall and blond with green eyes and long, girly lashes. In all honesty, he is even a pretty good listener—as long as I tell him he needs to FOCUS because I am saying something IMPORTANT. If he were the type to complain, he would probably point out that he has the body of an aging athlete, but that is part of what I love about him. Sure, he has a couple extra pounds, but that just makes him all the more accessible. And (he would hate it if I told this to anyone so we need to keep this just between ourselves) he even gives backrubs on occasion and will iron. How I landed this guy is anyone’s guess. I must have been a martyr in a previous life and given my life for some sort of good cause.

So, given that Scott is awesome in practically every way, I felt confident that he would listen and understand my perverse fears. I wasn’t disappointed. He gave me a squeeze and told me that no woman, regardless of slender figure, anti-vomit smell, and fully functioning gastrointestinal tract could ever take my place. True, he drawled it out ala’ John Wayne, but the thought was still there. Did I tell you I have one of the good ones? That night, I even let him wear his hip belt and cap guns to bed.