An unfiltered fire hose of flaming condemnation

Like Clockwork

Although Jon and I haven’t yet enrolled in birthing classes, what everyones says is supposed to empower us with pain management techniques and teach us how to work together to get this bulging baby here, we’re already pretty good at being each other’s partner.

Anyone who is married or has ever been married knows that it takes both people to make a marriage work. For instance, one person has to drive the car while the other person hangs out the window with a bat to demolish the neighbors’ mailboxes. Jon is better at driving, and I have much more anger to work through than he does, so we’re comfortable with our respective roles.

Additionally, he’s very good at conversational distraction, and can keep my mother occupied while I steal toilet paper out of her bathroom. We’re always looking for ways to work together to save money.

When it comes to this pregnancy, however, we’ve had to work extra hard to figure out ways to balance out the burden. Even though he can’t carry the baby or have his ankles swell on command, he’s somehow managed to will his body into experiencing some of the symptoms of pregnancy, like nausea, abdominal bloating, and frequent grumpiness. Every pregnant woman should have a partner who can moan in pain with her and mean it. Although he’s still so skinny that I can use his hipbones to slice raw meat, there is nothing that says “I Love You” more than Jon standing sideways in front of the bathroom mirror bemoaning the fact that this baby is making his ass look bigger.

After I wrote a post last week about my unfortunate inability to empty my bladder I received a countless number of emails giving advice on how to position my body over the toilet so that the the pee could flow freely. More than one email described a procedure I like to call The Ten and Two, where the left leg sticks out toward the ten on the clock, and the right leg sticks out toward the two. Once the legs are in place I’m supposed to lean over forward as far as possible, and the bladder should open up and spill the pee like manna from heaven.

If there was ever any doubt as to whether Jon and I were meant to be partners, that doubt would be squashed entirely by our graceful mastery of The Ten and Two peeing procedure, which goes something like this:

Jon, standing near the bathroom door, shouts “Are you doing The Ten and Two?”

Me, strategically positioned on the toilet, left leg toward ten, right leg toward two, leaning so far forward I’m nearly kissing the bathroom floor, “I’M DOING THE FUCKING TEN AND TWO.”

Jon, on the verge of doing a toe-touch and handstand, continues shouting encouragement, “Ten and Two, baby! Ten and Two! Here we go!”

Me, holding my breath and pushing so hard that every vein in my forehead is about to explode, screams through clenched teeth, “Ten… and… Two… baby… Ten… and… Two.”

Jon, having just performed a back-hand-spring, hears me pee for more than .4 seconds and cheers, “Gooooooooo Heather!”

And then we repeat the whole process every 15 minutes for the next eight hours.

I’m thinking that we don’t even need to sign up for birthing classes because we can probably get this baby here through The Ten and Two alone.

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Heather B. Armstrong

Hi. I’m Heather B. Armstrong, and this used to be called mommy blogging. But then they started calling it Influencer Marketing: hashtag ad, hashtag sponsored, hashtag you know you want me to slap your product on my kid and exploit her for millions and millions of dollars. That’s how this shit works. Now? Well… sit back, buckle up, and enjoy the ride.

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