My husband and I have been together for the entire extent of my adult life. We have been together nearly 13 years, and married 8. In all the time that we have been together, I have never once peed with my husband in the room and will go to great lengths to avoid farting in front of him. Grooming my lady parts in front of him? No, I’ll pass on it until he’s not around.
I just can’t do it. I want to keep the spark alive in our marriage. I want him to believe that I am a beautiful, sexy goddess who has no need to pee, poop, or have other less than pleasant bodily excrement. Obviously, he is aware that I do these things, but I don’t like to flaunt them. No married couple needs to be privy to every gory detail about the other party.
And then I got pregnant.
What can I say? Mystery went right out the window. I have yet to actually pee in front of him, however “morning” sickness reared its ugly head at very inopportune times like when I’d brush my teeth getting ready for bed. And because my husband knew it was his fault I was heaving everything I’d ever eaten into the contents of my toilet bowl (and once in my shower when a particularly intense wave of nausea hit me with no warning), he held back my hair and rubbed my back while I retched nightly. And then because the scent of cleaning products is hell for a pregnant women, he’d clean the toilet out.
Unfortunately, this was only the beginning of the end to the goddess mystique I had built. My back broke out in huge boil like pimples, the likes of which are only seen in the before sections of ProActiv ads. When my ob suggested a pregnancy safe remedy, guess who got stuck applying it to my oozing back? Yep, that’s right, my husband. So now, the beautiful, sexy goddess that my husband had believed I was had thrown up in the shower at his feet and has oozing pustules on her back that he has to touch.
But that’s not the worst part. Pregnancy pooping is the worst. Don’t get me wrong, when you can actually go, afterwards there is no better feeling, but during I am convinced that the pain and the pushing of going to the bathroom during pregnancy are preparing me for labor. Even the thought of needing to go to the bathroom after popping Colace like M&Ms makes me gasp in pain. In our house with the only bathroom on the main floor next to our bedroom, my husband has sadly been privy to my battle cries as he lays in bed, no doubt wondering what in God’s name is going on in the bathroom.
Add these delights to the OB appointments my husband dutifully accompanies me to during which he has seen things examined and witnessed a vaginal ultrasound during which the tech asked if I wanted to insert the probe, and the pristine goddess image is gone. There is no mystery left. I need to get used to this because much like pregnancy pooping is getting me in shape to go through labor, these realities are getting me mentally ready for my husband to be in the room when I give birth and all bodily function hell will more than likely break loose.
Though my original version of the goddess I had presented to my husband is long gone for the duration of my pregnancy, every night after rubbing medication on my disgusting back, he puts his hand on my growing belly, kisses me and tells me I have never been more beautiful to him.
Meanwhile, I look at him, full of wonder. I don’t wonder how my husband can tell me he still finds me beautiful. Instead, knowing he is not truly deranged, I wonder what drug he is taking that makes him think that and I hope to hell I can take some of it when I am in labor.
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