Never Throw Fish At a Pregnant Woman

My pregnancies have never been a piece of cake.  We began our family while in our thirties and my body has never truly accepted the fact that every few years an alien parasite is going to invade for nine months.  Sleep towards the end of the pregnancy has always been an elusive game for me.  I’ve tried every pillow, sleeping position, and mattress topper known to man but I still end up lugging myself back and forth between the bed and a cushy armchair.  One wee hour, as I was attempting yet another school bus U-turn repositioning in the bed, I told my dear husband (who by the way DID this to me) that I felt like Shamu trying to perform a flip at Sea World.

          “Next time I’ll toss you some fish”.

          It’s phenomenal how fast you can locate someone’s throat in pitch blackness.  He isn't always so dense though.  He is generally supportive with sometimes hilarious results.  We were sent to the emergency room once during my first pregnancy, and my husband looked gravely concerned on the drive over.  Wishing to reassure him, I asked what he was worried about.

          “Will they give you an RV?”

          “What?”

          “You know...an RV,” he repeated, slowly.

          I had to think about this for a minute.  Maybe the hospital was having some sort of raffle I didn’t know about…you know, “Hey!  You’re the one millionth pregnant chick to waddle through our doors!  Tell her what she’s won, Johnny!”

          “Well, that would be good,” I replied, kinda quizzically.  “We could always sell it or something.”

          “Sell it??”  He stared at me as if I’d lost my mind. “What???”

          “We aren’t talking about the same thing, are we?”  This happens sometimes.  OK, a lot.

          “R…V…” he repeated again in exasperation.  “R…V.  You know, they stick it in your arm with a needle?”

          I was laughing so hard by the time we got to the hospital that I was bright red in the face and panicked some nurses who thought I was in labor.  I just couldn’t get the image out of my head of some poor soul trying to drive a Winnebago with a giant needle between the headlights into a vein in my arm.

          My husband has never seen the humor in this incident.