Pregnant and I’m going to kill him soon
I was three months when I found I was pregnant, and my super proud husband immediately swung into protect the precious wife mode. He started cooking for me, and at first I was pleased, that was until I tasted it, It was absolutely foul, but he just smiled wider and swaggered out of the room wiggling his butt, feeling like a chippendale dancer, I can tell you exactly where I wanted to shove that piece of toast. I t was still six months to go, six LONG months.
In the living room he vacuumed, breaking my favourite vase, and thinking he was so smart when he swept the dirt under the sofa, but he never lost that innocent “I love you so much” look. Later he broached the subject of getting time off work to look after me, and my mind whirred like a broken clock as it desperately tried to think of ways and reasons to say “No!”
Eventually I had a flash of inspiration and said that we could never afford nice baby things if he took time off. He was up and at work two hours before he normally started the next morning.
After work he decided I need a massage to help calm me down, I would have preferred a hitman, and lay me face-down on the bed, and then grabbed the back of my neck in hands more suited for ripping things apart. Oh God! It felt like I was being lathed, but my constant groans of pain only convinced him that I was enjoying it.
The next day while he was at work I went to the library, and after explaining my predicament, we found 50 Reasons Not To Massage a Pregnant Woman. The librarian explained that after three pregnancies it had saved her life multiple times.
The next day was Saturday, and he wheeled his motorbike onto my living room carpet to fix it, and noticing the way my eyes flew open, like shutters in a storm, he explained it was only so he could be close in case I needed him. I was just about to flatten the walls with my scream when once again he turned that angelic smile on me. “Damn it” I thought “Even angels die when they annoy me this much” but with difficulty I kept silent.
Sunday, the day of rest, and I needed one badly, but Mr Perfect Husband had other ideas. He woke me before the sun had risen to change the sheets, so I would be more comfortable. “Please God,” I whispered, “Just a little lightning bolt, Please just one is all I’m asking”
On Monday my mother visited, and I begged her to take me away, She just kept saying that at least he was trying, and my moods were caused by hormonal changes. Damn, why had I never seen that she was a dribbling idiot?
The next day I had to suffer through the worst meal yet, and I knew without doubt that Morning Sickness was caused directly by my husband’s cooking. He was very unhappy looking as I retched and retched until my stomach was empty, only slightly helped by pushing my finger down my throat.
The day afterwards I went shopping at the mall and saw that same maniacal, angelic look on faces of pregnant women’s husbands everywhere I looked. I wanted to scream to the world, “Commit suicide now. Your death will be quicker and less painful.”
As my belly grew he started to bring friends to look at me, like a monkey in the zoo. I hoped they brought peanuts to throw, at least I wouldn’t have to eat that night. But no one ever seemed to. “I bet they ate them all on the way.” I thought with as flash of hatred, and I made a dash for the carelessly open front door, but he caught me before I could escape.
I awoke the next morning to find the doors heavily padlocked, but I found an open window and was able to crawl through. But the bastard had alerted the police. I screamed and kicked, bring tears to one officer’s eyes as my foot connected with his root of all evil, “Damn, I was pregnant, when did that become a crime?”
But even in America, kicking an officer in the crutch was illegal for even pregnant women, and I rode in the back of the quad car, a peaceful smile on my face as they took me to safety. I got more cunning after that, and managed to get myself committed until it was time to go to hospital, and when the baby at last started to come I screamed and screamed, not because of the pain, but because they would soon send me home.
At last my baby was born, and I refused him entry into the operating theatre, damn that felt good. And as the police returned me home, being very careful to ovoid my feet, I made a solemn vow to never again let him get close enough to do this again, and to remind us both I put the big cleaver under my pillow.
