Parents Just Don't Understand

We run a lot of grown up errands lately. We go to home improvement stores. We ask responsile parent-to-be questions like, "is this fabric hypo-allergenic?" We are concerned with the breast pump acessory market.

Sadly, not as differnet from my
normal appearance as I would hope

Lately, we've been doing a good bit of clothes shopping for Karen, which is a little odd considering that we've only got about 15 yards to reach the end zone here, but whatever makes Karen happy makes me happy. (amirightguys???)

This weekend I went with her to one of the maternity stores to provide a little input--sidenote, before she was pregnant, I was strictly forbidden from entering a dressing room with her. Now that she is, the staff at these stores practically drag a chair in there for me to sit down--As I'm complimenting her on the shapelyness of her new cardigan, Karen makes me put on this belly pillow.

These stores keep belly pillows in their dressing rooms, presumably to help men understand just how inconvenient this added bump can become when it comes to one's fashion sensibilities. That or to help newly pregnant women plan for their future clothing needs. It's like 50/50.

So I put on the belly pillow and my shirt is tighter and it's all very funny. And for a minute I understand what it's like to be pregnant.

But then I take off the pillow and I'm back to my perfect stone cut body and the joke is over.

The reality is that I could never really understand what's it's like to do what Karen is doing. To have something kick you in the ribs from the inside everyday. To not be able to sleep on your back or stomach and be so tired from waking up at 5am and being out until 9pm working that when you walk in and your spouse has this AMAZING story about how they totally rearranged the DVD collection by theme and/or moral that it makes you want to collapse right in the doorway. To make an effort to keep active with the spare few minutes you have each week to give yourself the best chance at an easier delivery. To read tens of books all seemingly about the same thing, written by the same woman, working with the same illustrator. To go through all the check ups, and appointments and dietary restrictions and on and on and on.

I don't pretend to understand what it's like and I could never do any of it, let alone all of it. But that's the differnece between me and my Karen.