The Last Childless Christmas

Over the weekend, my wife and I headed out in search of a Christmas tree.  In recent years we settled on the convenience of The Home Depot, grabbing a tree on the way out of the store and hoping it would make it until Christmas day.

But this year, both of us were feeling a bit more in the spirit of things. So with temps nearing the 60 degree mark, we headed to Dave's Maine Christmas trees and wreaths, a roadside lot with a large selection of fresh Frazer Fir trees

Under the string of light bulbs we began our search for the perfect Christmas tree.  And I got all sentimental, (when did this happen?), realizing that this would be the last Christmas with just the two of us at home.   As a matter of fact, this year has been full of lasts.  The last childless birthday, the last childless father’s day, the last childless anniversary, the last childless everything.  

But something happened that I'm sure will not be a last.  I managed to lodge my foot squarely in my mouth.  Searching for that perfect tree, my wife rejected my choices, calling them scrawny or scrimpy, shaking her head with every candidate I presented.

She pointed to her choice, a full tree that was $10 more than the ones I had selected.  And then it happened, I called the tree fat and out of shape.  But I didn’t stop there. In a complete lapse of judgment and an absence of sanity, I continued, calling the tree pregnant.

She shot me a disparaging look, her eyebrow raised as she put together my sentences.

“Is that what you think of me, fat and out of shape?”

Oh boy.

“No honey, I didn’t mean it like that….it must have been my angle, or the lighting….I actually think this tree is beautiful, it’s radiant…..a fine looking tree….it glows really, if you ask me....I’m going to go run out into traffic….”

After letting me suffer for a moment, she laughed it off, as she is an excellent sport.  But still, I have to be more careful.  (And for the record I don’t think my wife is fat and would never, ever say so if I did.) 

Eventually we picked the perfect tree.  We loaded it up into the truck and brought it to our home to decorate, playing Christmas songs and kicking off our last childless Christmas together.  

Afterwards, we sat back and enjoyed our beautiful tree, the colorful lights sparkling as they reflected off of our childhood ornaments. And I must say, the tree is a stunning, a glowing tree that lights up our house and warms my heart, just like my pregnant--but not by any means fat--wife.

Playing Defense

With my wife in full on nesting stage, shopping with her can be a like a game of chess.  The mere mentioning of “picking up a few things” triggers a defense mechanism and I become similar to a coach before a big game.  I quickly begin to implement a game plan, devising several simple yet cunning maneuvers that begin long before we enter the store. 

Driving routes, parking, and even choosing a point of entry can be crucial when attempting to withstand the onslaught of promotions, sales, and clearance events that await my susceptible wife as she enters a store.



Before the pregnancy, her penchant for walking into a salesperson’s trap was a manageable expenditure that while I couldn’t always rationalize, was accepted as one of those things I can’t change.  But now--with a list exceeding any and all imaginable baby products of which I never knew existed--stores such as Target and Walmart have become killing fields loaded with landmines and traps bound to snag even the thriftiest of consumers.



This was painfully evident on a recent trip to Plow & Hearth in Charlottesville, Virginia.  We made the trip after my wife found a decorative fireplace grate in their seasonal magazine, (I had failed to intercept this before it found its way into her hands).

We parked and were immediately flanked from all angles as the barrage of stores in the shopping center loomed in the distance.  The first blitz of stores had my wife oohing and ahhing at the mere mention of the brands lurking inside.  But I remained calm as I had one factor firmly on my side, pregnancy. 

“That’s so cute… I wish I could still wear cute clothes.”  My wife exclaimed longingly as she walked by the threatening store which under normal circumstances would have me trembling with fear.

Instead I smiled wisely, feeling confident under the protective shield of maternity.  But I wasn't about to get cocky, I knew what lay in my path. A store with large, expensive items, items set perfectly under dim, cozy lighting designed to give them a homey, warm feel. 

Once inside, I headed straight for the item we came for, which wasn’t in stock and would have to be ordered.  Meanwhile my wife was left alone to perused the store, as the unabated sales persons chatted her up as she wandered ever so far away from the on sale items. I watched helplessly as I spoke with the cashier, cursing under my breath as I had fallen for the old trick play being flawlessly carried out in front of my very eyes.

I snatched my receipt, thanking the lady while refusing to fill out the card for some kind of drawing, I know stalling tactics when I see them lady! I muscled through the crowd in hopes of a goal line stand. But it was too late, I found my wife in the back of the store and heard the words I’ve come to fear: 

“You’ve got to see this.”  I knew what that meant, it means look what we’re buying.

The rest of the trip went according to plan.  We made some bathroom stops, avoided clothing stores, and even made it through a few shops without any damage to the wallet.  I would have been proud of myself; I had stuck to the plan, and--except for one significant lapse--played defense exceptionally well.

The sun was setting as we began our journey home, leaving an amber glow on the mountains in the distance.  My wife turned down the radio as she looked over at me and smiled.

"I think that chair will be perfect for the living room.”

I grinned, nodding my head in agreement before hearing a faint whisper escape my wife’s lips as she turned to the window.  My stupid grin quickly vanished as I realized what exactly I had heard.  It sounded like…..Checkmate.

Sleeping Alone...

For the past two nights I have slept like a baby and because of this I feel somewhat guilty.  As my wife’s mid section grows, her sleeping has gotten more and more erratic.  She takes anywhere between 8-10 bathroom trips each night, tossing from side to side and using as much space as possible while doing so. 

A few days ago she came down with a cold that left her completely miserable, especially at night.  She began snoring heavily—like scared the dogs heavily—so the other night while she was tossing and turning, I snuck out.  I snuck out on my pregnant, sick wife, what a jerk.

I headed down the hall for the guest room.    The bed felt a bit softer than normal, the pillows were fluffed as if they had been prepared to my liking for a good night’s rest.  Oh wow, I thought, stretching out, this is nice. I didn't know it could feel like this.  I closed my eyes, quickly surrendering to a deep uninterrupted sleep. 

I woke up the next morning refreshed, in fact I had overslept; my wife woke me, asking me if I planned on going to work, (I had forgotten to put the do not disturb sign out).  I hopped out of bed well rested and recharged, ready to take on the day with a smile on my face.  I Pushed back the tinge of guilt, got dressed and headed to the kitchen for breakfast.  School was pushed back a couple of hours due to the rain hurricane so I kissed my loving wife on the forehead and went off to work.

I thought it was a one time thing.  I vowed not to do it again.  The next night, we said goodnight before going to sleep, like any other happily married couple who doesn’t keep things from each other.  I tried to sleep, drifting at times before my attention was jerked by the tossing and sneezing and snoring.  I waited until around midnight and made my move.  I climbed out of bed, walking softly down the hall to my luxurious unoccupied sleep suite, pulling back the covers and digging in for a second night of peaceful sleep. 

I’m awful, I know.  My poor pregnant wife is sick and here I am slinking off down the hall to oblivion.  I don’t want us to become a couple who sleeps in separate beds, I like sleeping next to her….or at least I did.  It feels like betrayal, but then, when I’m hanging on to a sliver of the mattress, grasping for dear life, scared of just what is happening behind my back,  I start to think about the empty bed…calling my name from the soft cottony uninhibited sheets.  I'm so weak....well rested....but weak.

The Boss...

Recently, while far away from my wife, I Googled Does being pregnant make you bossy?  I found no definite answer but instead managed to find results that made me feel like jerk.   Scrolling down the screen, I spotted words such as hormones, swollen, weight gain, and other adverse effects of carrying a baby.  With all of this happening to my wife's body, I’m feeling down? 

Let me explain, here are a few examples of the plight of the expecting father:

I am no longer a husband.  I am the man who did this to her. As she puts her anti-stretch-mark-cream on her belly I can feel a chill up my spine from her ice cold stare.  Where is the Glow?

She will change her mind in a second without notice and then I am to adapt on the fly to her fleeting wishes.  A pregnant woman’s logic, however skewed, is not to be questioned.

I am never, ever to complain about being uncomfortable, sick, or upset until I try caring my big-headed baby around every day.

As soon as a discarded item hits the trash bag the garbage stinks and therefore must be taken outside.  She has the sense of smell of an English Foxhound.  The other day she smelled a picture of an orange.

My already irritating habit of leaving kitchen cabinets open is now a capital offense, punishable by 30 tongue lashings and a cold shoulder.

If I want to sleep in the bed with her I had better cling to the edge and wear a gas mask not use any covers.

And finally, last night I was on the customer service line with Target in regards to a crib (Thanks Grandma and Grandpa!) we received with a broken part.  Having worked customer service long ago, I always try to be as patient and polite as possible.  My wife circled as I spoke, ready to pounce while asking questions and instructing me on what to say. I tried to pleasantly gather information from the agent on the phone, while trying to listen to my wife at the same time.  After a half hour of this I was exasperated, I snuck into the other room, looking both ways down the hall as I whispered, Listen lady, we can do this the easy way or the hard way, we have to work together… trust me, you don’t want me to hand the phone over to my wife!

That Smell...

I’m not quite sure how to put this….my wife has gas.  I understand that this isn’t groundbreaking news, she has had gas before but this.....this is different.  The dogs seek refuge under the bed as the cat leaps from the window while I, coming into the room from the kitchen, am blindsided by what has come out of my beautiful wife.

Perhaps it’s payback, I’m used to being the stinky one in the house.  But now, this baby, if indeed that’s what is in there, has changed all of that.  When we first started dating we would hold in whatever may be going on in our bowels, waiting until we were alone before relieving ourselves.  Maybe this was a good idea.  In all seriousness it’s not that bad, well it is but still, she’s pregnant, what’s my excuse?

Overall,  I'm getting used to all of the changes happening with her, like the other morning when I came in and she was rinsing a dish at the sink while stripping off layers of clothing because she was suddenly hot.  Another thing is that her face has become super sensitive to everything…including me..at least that’s what she tells me.  But we’re nearing the end of the first trimester so that’s progress, and progress, as bad as it may smell, is good right?