Air has suddenly become very central to my existence. Not, in fact, that it wasn’t before (being one of the conditions necessary to sustain life and all), but as of late, it seems to have become even more central- a revolving theme, you might say, in this little game of life and pregnancy.
For instance, there is the category of Hot Air, otherwise known as the kind that comes out of me when pregnancy hormones surge and I get frustrated or downright angry for no apparent reason. I have been known lately to get into this state for both legitimate and nonlegitimate reasons- dealing with idiots on the phone at work, for instance (I call that one legitimate), or getting mad because I can’t find my favorite spatula while cooking (probably nonlegit), or because the cat tipped over my glass or dipped her damn paw in my tea, again (legit? nonlegit? hard to say)… or also, just because my wife may have looked at me the wrong way (for this one I’ll just say sorry, wife). When these things happen and my hormones come boiling to the surface, it generally causes a lot of hot air to come rushing out and express itself as frustration, with or without a side of angry tears to go with it. Ah, hormones. Funsies. Luckily, I’d like to think this form of air doesn’t show itself too much in our lives and that most of the time I am nothing short of a complete bundle of joy to be around… though in the interest of complete disclosure, Shorty may have a different take on that. 😉
Then of course, there’s another category of air that has played a more central role as of late. The air I breathe , though it has always played a vital (ha. pun.) role in my existence, seems lately to have become even more vital and yet correspondingly harder to acquire. Witness: I go upstairs, end up short of breath for the next minute (and Shorty laughs at me). Go downstairs, same thing (Shorty keeps laughing). Get up too fast, gasp for air next 5 minutes (yep, Shorty’s still laughing). Pick up all the
crap items strewn around my living room because I’m tired of it looking like a pigstye, end up sounding like I should be on life support (Shorty is guffawing by now). Finally give up and sit down… and end up throwing my slipper at Shorty’s head because she is STILL laughing and she has finally pushed my hormones too far (see paragraph above for reference on how the rest of this scenario plays out).
Okay fine, so it’s not quite as bad as all that, but the point is this: I have been getting noticeably short of breath doing simple things I’ve always taken for granted. Though Dr. Google and all the pregnancy boards I’ve read all assure me that this is a normal phenomenon, the truth is, I like my oxygen and I would prefer to continue to get plenty of it, thankyouverymuch. Dr. Google helpfully assures me that the shortness of breath is caused by an increased oxygen demand placed on my body due to the baby’s oxygen needs. Great. So now, not only is this kid stealing all my food, he’s taking all my oxygen as well? Greedy little
parasite cuddlebug. (Side note to baby: if I’m going to share all this stuff with you, you had better come out of that womb as strong as freakin’ superwoman and with a teenager’s sleeping abilities. Do you hear me?!).
Apparently though, no matter how much air the baby is stealing from me, he/she/it is generous enough to leave plenty leftover for me to have gas. And holy crap, such gas I have never had in my entire life!!! It is omnipresent, constant, unstoppable and overwhelming. It has no sense of right, wrong, or social situations. It has nothing to do with how regularly I do or do not move my bowels. At work, I basically have to pray that the “opportune moment” will come at a moment when everyone’s busy, no one’s at my desk bugging me, the phones are ringing, and the centrifuges are going. Luckily, that happens more often than you would think, plus my desk is a bit removed from everyone else’s, leaving me free to toot-at-will…. but I would be lying if I said there haven’t been some awkward moments in elevators.
It is at this time that I once again have to stop and reflect on how grateful I am to have such a loving, comfortable relationship to go home to. Not only does Shorty put up with my hormones, not only do I know that although she laughs at me while I’m gasping for air, she would be there in a flash if ever actually do need mouth-to-mouth resuscitation… I also feel very free to fart in front of her, and that is no small thing. I know some women who would NEVER fart in front of their partners. I have a friend who is getting married next year who still refuses to “go” when her fiance’s around. And let me just say… I would not last in this situation. Luckily, I don’t even have to try… having the amazing, wonderful wife that I do, I have to say how thankful I am to be able to just let ‘er rip when I get home. No, really. No sarcasm. And Shorty being Shorty, and being the amazing wife that she is, very rarely comments on my gaseous issues… only silently reaches for a pillow to hold over her face and continues with what she was doing. Doesn’t even scoot away from me on the couch.
Ladies and gentlemen, that, right there, is love.