The Ramblings Of A Pregosaurus

RAMBLINGS OF A PREGOSAURUS

Hello, my name is Tracey, and I am a pregosaurus. Yes, you did read that correctly “preg-o-saurus”, it is the term that my husband has affectionately started to use on me, during the last 5 months of our latest pregnancy. Actually, I am only 5 months and 4 days pregnant, so you can see that this nickname was a fairly immediate occurrence.

Another word that has recently been bandied around in my presence, one that my boss delights in using, (though far less affectionate, and hardly complimentary), is bitch. It seems that these two ‘nicknames’ are rather closely associated to one another, and have been spoken a great deal more, since news of my pregnancy was announced.

Now don’t get me wrong, I do not mean to evoke either anger or self-pity. No, in fact I am rather deserving of both titles. I also have absolutely no intention of surmising that all pregnant women, fall into these categories. Not at all. I apologize if I came across this way. No, actually I myself was once a joyful, glowing pregnant woman, a walking advertisement of the bountiful new life that was growing inside of me. That was three years ago. And those nine months accumulated with the birth of our daughter- probably the greatest gift that had, until then, been given to either myself or my husband.

If you too, are one of these glowing pregnant women- I envy you. This time around has been a little different for me. It’s not that we don’t want this baby- having two miscarriages last year, I am ecstatic to know that I can still carry children (probably even more so than before). I just feel different. I react to things differently. In fact, I would have been eternally grateful, if at the beginning of this pregnancy, my husband had instead of come up with a charming nickname for me, which no doubt has been uttered again and again between clenched teeth (and no doubt will be heard many more times in the next few months), had chosen to instead lock me up in a cage (an expandable one of course), with a stack of novels, and periodically bought me offerings of jalapeno peppers, rice pudding and mayonnaise. At least then, the poor man would not have to tiptoe around our house every evening, under constant threat of a barrage of tears, insults, or worse (the nightly dinner offerings of jalapeno sandwiches, must surely be wearing thin on him now?) And I would not have to call him every morning, and apologize for my ludicrous behavior the night before. “No darling, of course I don’t blame you for making me feel this way, of course I’m happy, of course I’ll make you something other than jalapeno sandwiches tonight. How about chili peppers dipped in mayonnaise? No? Why not? Is my cooking bad? Don’t you love me? Do you think I’m getting fat??” You get the picture…

For along with the “Pregosaurus Rules And Regulations” that my husband had been subjected to three years ago, including; “Thou shalt not look at any woman thinner than me,” and “Thou shalt not make comments if my bottom suddenly gains 10 pounds, nor shall though cringe if I decide to surprise you wearing a thong,” or “Thou shalt not notice if my chin gets a little hairy (especially if it proceeds to become hairier than yours)”. This time, I have thrown in a few more rules to remember, such as; “Thou shalt not touch me, unless I am broken-hearted because you have neither kissed or hugged me in the last five minutes” and “Thou shalt except that I temporarily prefer the dogs’ company to your own, and therefore should not be surprised, if I a) show more interest in the dogs’ dinner than your own, and b) prefer to cuddle up to said dog while sleeping, thus leaving you hanging off your own side of the bed, with no available covers.”

The thing about these latest rules is that they only get written or even realized with each progressing day. I mean, who was I to know that surprising me with a romantic dinner for two at an expensive steak house, would leave me reeling in the bathroom, with my head down the toilet, for the next 24 hours? (Oh, by the way darling, the baby doesn’t have a penchant for steak).