Okay, so maybe there have been a few death stares and grunts exchanged here and there, but for the most part? This man has been amazing. Admittedly crazy, whiney and often hormonally challenged, I know it hasn't been easy. I don't think I could have put up with myself these past few weeks. However, I have to say, Hubs, you recently dropped the ball. We may have to put your nomination for sainthood on hold for a bit. Here's why.
It happened. I knew it was inevitable. I found my first stretchmark. In my 36th week of pregnancy. That sonnofabitch. It's on the bottom of my belly. Right where Baby Boy has been keeping his head nestled so conveniently above my right hip.
Walking into the family room with my tanktop hiked up underneath my
AP: Hubs? Will you still love me post baby and want to jump my just-having-birthed-a-linebacker bod, even with this terrible, horrible stretchmark on my belly?
Hubs: [Truly giving this question much more thought than necessary] Is it permanent?
Erghh. That wasn't quite the answer I was going for. Wasn't there a whole chapter on this in that baby book you've been reading? Something along the lines of, "Things Your Wife Wants to Hear When She Asks You Crazy Questions Like Will You Still Love Me Even With This Stretchmark?"
I was hoping for a resounding, "Stretchmark? What stretchmark? Ohmygoodness, of course I will!" Don't worry, Hubs. We'll keep practicing. Because god knows there will be plenty more crazy questions where that came from... And then we can reinstate that sainthood nomination.