In the months since The Wife™ and I have known that she was pregnant, there are a handful of things that have since become apparent. Unfortunately none of which are just how in the hell we’re actually going to be responsible caregivers for something that weighs less than a Chipotle burrito. And now all I can think about is burritos. Great.

Anywhoo, unlike when you get engaged and you’re expected to shout from the rooftops the exact second that she says yes (once you’ve regained your composure and are no longer in danger of ralphing on your shoes), when you find out that you’re pregnant, you’re supposed to keep your mouth shut. With engagement, everyone immediately starts spewing information and advice, handing out suggestions and warnings like they’re those nasty brown and orange molester candies on Halloween. For introverts like The Wife™ and I, this time around it’s nice, because we feel silly telling people such self-centered news, and announcing our engagement was an odd exercise in narcissism. What’s bad about this time is that we had a two month period to let the fear of God sink in. And fester. Two months of thinking about every single bad thing that could will happen, reading books and running numbers. Two months without anyone’s molester-candy advice to snap us back to reality and let us know that things might just be okay.

So in the past twelve weeks, I’ve learned to get used to the sight of my dear wife, every morning, slowly munching on crackers and making a God-awful mushing sound while somehow still asleep in our bed. I’ve come to expect occasional six o’clock bedtimes (which has even me blushing), two-hour “get ready to go out” lagtimes, thirteen hour “naps,” and more forgetfulness than you could shake a stick at. Apparently with the blood being diverted to the create the placenta, there’s absolutely NONE left to power The Wife’s™ brain, as most evening’s I feel proud to find out that she did indeed remember to wear pants to work.

And after two and half months of living with this cracker-mushing zombie, and since we’ve told our family and friends, we’re finally to the point where we can gather personal advice to keep us grounded and sane. And boy has it been pouring in. Helpful advice. Explicit advice. Useful tips such as: “Do anything she wants! She’s pregnant, you know!” Oh, really? Because I had forgotten that. Right until she complained about being tired after having been up for TWENTY WHOLE MINUTES. This is the type of advice I was waiting for? I’m putting my non-pregnant friends on notice to let them know that when your wives go through this, the cliff-note version for you is simply “YOU SUCK. DO EVERYTHING.”

And don’t get me started on those pregnancy books. While they may help explain to the woman what she’s going though, they pretty much stop short of suggesting that they install servant bells around the house. Oops, what I meant was that the men would have to install the bells, then remind the wife why she asked for the bells to be installed in the first place, and finally to be the ones to answer to those damn bells.

So while I can only imagine what kind of physical hell my poor wife has been going through, it’s been a definite lesson in humility for me as well. A mini-lesson in parenting of sorts, making sure that she remembers to do things.

Damn. I just realized I left the house this morning before she put pants on…