March 27, 2012 by Heather
Today I am able to wear clothes. This is huge progress in sunburnville. I was also able to sleep last night, quite well actually. I think I am making the transition from alien lobster to very tan pregnant person, and PRAISE THE LORD for that. I took some advice and wrapped my feet in vinegar-soaked dishtowels last night. Andrew was pretty grossed out by it. I don’t know if it worked or not… but this morning my feet felt a lot better and the swelling had gone down some, so it’s either from the vinegar, a good night’s sleep, or just the skin healing itself. Or all three. Let’s go with all three.
Now for a section I like to call: “Men Are From Somewhere, Women Are From Somewhere Else”
Males and females are so different. Shocking, I know. And I’m not just talking about the P and the V. I’m talking like everything. Being married really brings to light those differences, and sometimes not in the best way.
For example… (Andrew knows what I’m about to say here, I just know it. Sorry honey, sort of.)
Last night Andrew was in the kitchen getting some food and I hobbled in there to see if I could help or get in the way or something. What I was really doing was looking for some sympathy. Something to the effect of, “Oh honey sweetheart sugar dumpling, bless your big beautiful heart. Your feet do look like four pound sausages, what are you doing off the couch? That must be so uncomfortable for you. Here, let me help you back into the living room you gorgeous pregnant creature.”
So, fishing for sympathy, I said, “Oh my gosh my feet hurt so bad. Have you looked at them?”
Andrew, ever the sensitive male, replied, “Yeah… I guess they’re swollen, but I really think you’re making it out to be a lot worse than it is.”
(pause for reaction)
So totally not what I was looking for. Which I made known. So then he had to feel of my feet before he could say whether or not they were actually swollen. HEELLOOOOO! Is it not obvious? My ankles and my calves have become one like the Spice Girls song. Geez Louise.
So, after prodding around on my scorched skin, he finally did come to the conclusion that they were in fact somewhat swollen.
Somewhat. A little swollen. I just wanted him to say that they were the size of our duplex and how in the world am I walking on them.
Why couldn’t he agree with me in the first place about how huge and painful they were? I gave him copious amounts of sympathy when he complained about his swollen, sunburned nipples. I played the whole “Oh you poor thing they ARE swollen, ouch!” card when I really kind of wanted to laugh at them, because let’s face it, swollen nipples are funny.
Of course, he made up for it when I crawled back into bed after my 4am potty break. Not like that, you pervs.
“Hey,” he said, reaching for my hand.
“Um, hey…why are you awake?” I replied.
“I just wanted to tell you how much I love you.”
Boys. Can’t live with ’em, can’t live without ’em.