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Two nights ago, my wife told me to stop breathing. Don’t tell her this: I kept breathing.

Three nights earlier, she told me to sleep on the couch. Her reason: I was breathing.

Apparently, breathing annoys her. Since the pregnancy just about everything annoys her, but for sure, I thought, she wouldn’t touch my addiction to oxygen. Breathing has been in my family for generations. Ever since my great grandfather braved battlefields during World War I to deliver oxygen tanks to field hospitals, we’ve dedicated every Thanksgiving and Christmas to air. (Side note: in a hilarious moment of irony, one of my great grandfather’s oxygen tanks exploded, sending shrapnel through his lungs, killing him by suffocation)

I approached her days later, cautiously, about these requests. To which she responded: “I have no recollection of that.” She was asleep; I’ll grant her that. But unconscious or not, I don’t believe wives should passively murder husbands. I’m a romantic like that.

I’ve been warned of many things in regards to housing a wild pregnant woman—the smell and the extreme unresponsiveness to house training being two of the more concerning items—but never once was I informed that my wife would one day encourage my own suicide. I’m honorable when I screw up, but breathing isn’t seppuku worthy.

There was one time, during a spontaneous moment of compassion, when she told me that in lieu of holding my breath I could simply turn my face away from her. I was both already facing away from her and greatly confused. I tried reading between the lines for an alternate version of “away” but came away empty. I’ve been empty ever since.

I haven’t lost her completely to the uneven battle between hormones and logic. Once while asleep she farted, and followed the act immediately with a quick, unconscious chuckle. Moments those make her suicide demands bearable.

The Hormolial Pregnaramous are a sneaky beast, I’m learning. What started early on as passable requests for simple things—back massages, foot rubs, foot rubs, human flesh, foot rubs—swelled almost imperceptibly into something slightly more disconcerting, and I’m pretty sure, illegal. Didn’t Jim Jones get in trouble for something involving suicide back in 1978? He should have used the now obvious “I have no recollection of that” excuse to escape persecution. “Nine hundred people you say…I don’t know. I was pretty hammered.” Or he could have just gotten knocked up, I guess.

About this site:

These are the words of a man learning to be a father with nothing to guide him but the wisdom of friends, his wife, his family, and some pretty good hunches…like, really good hunches, though.

Action Montage:

4 weeks

8 weeks

12 weeks

16 weeks

20 weeks

24 weeks

28 weeks

The Goal (replace dotted line with actual profile)

Read this…

"A Mean Utility" short story from Craig Davidson's collection, Rust and Bone.(This goes to an excerpt; the full story deals more with fatherhood, I promise)

Shit Yeah, Another Baby. by By Amber Richardson

Archives: A history of things I’ve likely already forgotten

RSS The Bewildered Housewife

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