How I Told my (dense) Husband I was Pregnant
Feb 09 '00
I had two chances at this. One might think, after the first attempt, I would have decided to forego creativity, but no, I thrive on challenge. Here are the stories of the two times I told my husband I was pregnant. I would love to hear your stories as well!
Baby #1 - the Pillow Technique
The first pregnancy came after a year of trying. Two weeks before I was going in for a checkup, to get Clomid, I took my twice-weekly pregnancy test (the Home Pregnancy Test people had to love me. I should have bought stock in those!). TWO pink lines… definitely no mistake. I did the Snoopy dance, right there in the bathroom. I debated calling hubby at work, or waiting until he was home. I decided it would be more fun to tell him in person, and so I hid the HPT under the covers, on the middle of his pillow.
Bedtime comes; he gets ready for bed. Throws the covers back without looking at the pillow, and starts to slide into bed.
“Honey,” I say, “can you toss me my nightgown?”
He shoots me a look, one of those “Geez woman, get your own nightgown” combined with a “Does this mean we won’t be trying to make a baby tonight?” looks. I try to keep a straight face.
He reaches over to grab my nightgown, and sees the HPT. He stops, frozen, and picks it up.
“What is this?” he asks, cautiously.
“What does it look like?” I reply, giggling.
“One of those pregnancy things.” he replies, still looking at me.
“Yep….” I say.
“So what does that mean?” he asks.
I stare at him, not sure if he is dense or just wants to hear it out loud. I decide (incorrectly I think) it’s the latter.
“I’m PREGNANT!” I say, unable to keep the glee out of my voice.
“Omigod” he says, recovering quickly, “That’s great!”
He runs over, and hugs me. Runs downstairs, opens a bottle of champagne we had leftover from a party, and brings it upstairs.
As we lay in bed, contemplating the wonder that we have begun, with our champagne (I only had about 3 sips) he turns to me.
“Honey,” he asks me…
“Mmm?” I reply, dreamily. This is a moment we have waited for and I am savoring it.
“Don’t you have to pee on those things?” he says.
“What things?” I ask, unsure where he is going here.
“Those pregnancy tests. Don’t you have to pee on them?”
“Uh, yeah, that’s how they work.” I say, still unsure where this is going.
“Oh” he says.
We lay in peace for a while. After a few minutes he gets up, washes his hands, pads to the linen closet, and pulls out a clean pillowcase.
I start giggling.
Baby #2 – A more Subtle Approach
For the second baby, I thought I would be more subtle. I wanted to make him figure it out, after all, it was three years later and he was a trained FATHER now. We had been using Clomid for months, to no avail. I took an HPT and got a positive (two lines) and was stunned.
I decided to make him a “Baby Dinner”. He’s a bright guy, I thought, with a Master’s degree, and he’ll figure it out…. This should be a fun way to tell him the big news.
So I prepared a dinner of baby foods. Not Gerber baby foods, but all foods with “baby” in their name. Baby back ribs, with a side of steamed baby zucchini, baby yellownecks and baby carrots, with baby grapes on the side. It was actually really cute, all these miniature versions of regular foods (except the ribs of course). As we ate I asked my husband, “What do you think of the dinner?”
“Mmmmmmgooofff”, he mumbled, mouth full (interpreted: it’s good).
“Did you notice anything about it?” I inquired.
“Mmmmmmwenshoppin?” He replied, mouth full of ribmeat (interpreted: you went shopping?)
“Um yes… did you notice a theme?” I ask, still patient, hoping he will at least swig down some water so this touching moment can be discussed without ribs in his teeth.
“Ummmmmmm…” he stops to drink water, and I give thanks under my breath…
"Western?" he answers without much hope, realizing, I think, that I am going to insist on a full conversation during dinner.
“Noooooo… anything else?” I ask, at this point realizing he is missing the point and that this is more irritating than it is even worth.
“Ummm.. YEAH! They’re all baby foods!” he says, proud of himself.
He gets it! I wait expectantly (no pun intended) for the lightbulb to come on. It stays off.
I wait.. and wait… he reaches for a rib, and looks at me hopefully, with the “Gee, I got it, can I go back to eating now?” look.
“And can you think of any reason that we would have that theme?” I ask, almost gritting my teeth, realizing I was incredibly optimistic to think the subtle approach would work. His hand freezes in mid-air over the rib.
“Gee, I dunno…” he ponders, eyeing the ribs longingly….
I wait…
DING! The lightbulb lights.
“Are you pregnant?” He asks, stunned.
I nod, unable to talk, due to restrained emotion. It’s not tenderness, as you might expect, its frustration and a burning desire to throttle him.
We hug, over the ribs, and I forgive him for his thickness. He forgives me for keeping him from his ribs. All is good in our happy home again. The air is filled with love.
He sighs, proud, and goes back to his ribs.
I look at him and sigh, and realize its going to be a LONG 9 months without alcohol.
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Member: Amy
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Every time I close the door on reality it comes in through the windows.
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