There is nothing like pregnancy to bring out the fundamental differences between women and men. It's the overwhelming hormone surge which highlights the often polar opposites. It's unfair, really, on the bloke considering there is little they can do to avoid being on the end of an emotional outburst but it is fundamental that they try. When I say try I mean think, think, think before you open your mouths. Consider whether a hug, a "there, there" and a "yes Darling, you can do what ever you want" might be appropriate. Be reassured that "it will be alright, I promise" is always a better place to start than "what are you on about now?" and remember AT ALL TIMES that helpful tips on nutrition, baby growing and how to avoid weight gain should NEVER come out of your trap. Keep it shut. Or face the consequences.
I should mention it is not my husband that has offended. Yet. Although he has gone dangerously close. He has been commendably patient, especially considering the turmoil that is whirl winding about in my head. He has cooked many dinners, not once asked "what I have achieved today" like all I have been doing is lying about masturbating and watching sport all day whilst gorging on junk food while he has been working hard. He has accepted the house in a state of disarray on most days and in the weekends he has let me sleep in. We won't mention his suggestive snuggle far too early yesterday morning. I certainly didn't acknowledge it at the time. He has been for the most part kind and kept quiet. I think he is aware that I am craving, like I have never craved before, a wine to calm my nerves. And my moods. And my liver.
What he is not doing so well at is helping me avoid the startling differences between he and I. Namely he is a bloke and I am not. In particular there is one thing. He calls it an essential, life making entertainment. He watches it at every opportunity he can get. He seem indiscriminate about its type, make up or the quality. He calls it exciting. He calls it necessary. I call it all the same. I call it boring. I call it the reason I hate winter. We both call it sport. It's presence on the television at the frequency it is on is really fucking me off. I am pregnant. I can't control my emotions. He SHOULD be indulging me with romantic comedies and shoulder rubs night after night. And saying "there, there" and promising everything will be alright.
It is difficult for him, I appreciate this. I am walking about with a peanut sized baby in my belly that I forced him to help make (although technically some other bloke made it and a woman put it in there) and I am behaving like a worn out, tyrannical princess. To make it worse, when he gets enthusiastic and starts trying to NAME the baby I go into a state of panic. I've never done this part before. Reasons to have a baby by yourself begin with naming it yourself. Let's face it, naming babies highlights the very fundamental and most striking differences between men and women. You think I'm exaggerating? Let me explain.
The fundamental difference between men and women is this: when a man stranger and a woman stranger walk past one another a couldn't be more different thought pattern starts metastasising in their brains. It is something that highlights the basics of men and the stupidity of women. It starts maybe younger than puberty but until a woman has married and produced offspring it never dissipates. For men, marriage and children change nothing. And what the OTHER one is thinking is so far beyond what their opposite is thinking that quite seriously, each finds it hard to believe that the two are such incredibly different thought processes.
It goes like this: Nice looking man swaggers down the street, we'll call him Bloke A. He walks past a pretty looking broad with perky tits and a trotty little walk. We'll call her Chick A. She's a bit of alright. Quite seriously ladies, here's what Bloke A thinks. He thinks 'nice tits, nice arse, hmmm, I can picture her naked, I'd like to have sex with that.' He then imagines the act. No seriously. Fights break out in bars NOT because women or men need to do anything. But because boyfriends of nice looking chicks take offence to what other blokes are THINKING. It is true.
Let's take scenario two: Bloke A swaggers down the street past a rather unattractive sheila with a muffin break billowing over her too tight jeans that we shall call Chick B. Bloke A can't help himself. He thinks 'ew fat arse, ugly mug.' THEN he imagines what she looks like under her clothes and because he can't help himself imagines with complete and utter disdain what it would be like to have sex with her. You wouldn't believe it.
It's time we introduce Bloke B. The male equivalent of Chick B. Fat. Smelly. Ugly. And watches way too much sport. (OK, so I'm being fanciful). The above scenarios for Bloke B walking past Chick A and Chick B are pretty much the same. The only difference is their personal standards may differ a bit. The concept is simple. It is equally simple in reverse.
Chick A or Chick B, I kid you not, walking down the street past Bloke B, will probably not remotely register that Bloke B exists. At best, unless he is the only man on earth left, they'll think 'meh' and move on. That's it. The real difference is what thought processes occur next, when the Chicks walk past Bloke A. I promise you, not a thought of sex goes through their heads. Not one penis. Not one moment of undressing. No nudity imagined. No blokes, it's worse. Chick A and Chick B both have wedding bells playing, designer cutlery picked out and they start imagining their children.
Quite honestly it's true. Which brings me back to my original point. Not only have I NEVER walked past a bloke and imagined him naked. I have NEVER imagined myself having sex with a stranger or thinking "oooh, you look lovely I'd like your penis in my vagina". Not only that. If I have found out your name, I HAVE practised my name with your surname. I have picked out our wedding songs AND I HAVE ALREADY NAMED OUR CHILDREN.
I don't know how to be more clear. Although my husband is probably stuck on how I refused to take his name when we married (yep, it wasn't a good option), the hormonal, pregnant princess in me is struggling with the fact Mr G wants to help name our baby. Mainly because his suggestions are simply unacceptable. He calls mine "too old fashioned and snooty" but he fails to recognise that old fashioned and snooty are minimal requirements. He's searching though, of all things, sports teams to find suggestions while I basically check out death notices. Thankfully we have 7 months to go. Until he comes around to my way of thinking. Bless his cotton socks.
