The Breast Is Best Enthusiast
So the boys grow up repeating the sins of their fathers.
Not because they’re bad. Just because they didn’t know better.
Rebecca had the life that I dreamed of. She had a big house, two dogs, and a really nice mom and dad. I would sit in Rebecca’s house sometimes and watch in amazement as Rebecca’s mom hugged and kissed her and combed the tangles out of her long hair.
“I can’t lie. I had a reallllly hard time during pregnancy watching my weight tick up and up and up nonstop…”
“My wife’s body is so different lately, it’s like fucking a whole new person. I’m so into it.”
Around the corner from every trying moment is a wonderfully reassuring punch, kick, or head butt from that tiny little human growing inside you.
Don’t get me wrong: I am delighted by the prospect of bringing a new life into the world. I expect to make endless compromises as I adjust to the life-changing milestone that is parenthood. But I refuse to become entirely selfless as I embark on this whole motherhood journey.
I work hard, so hard, to raise my children absent the straightjacket of gender stereotypes, but there will inevitably be manifestations of them along the road. And that’s fine. The goal is not to remove gender from the equation altogether, it is to deny it such an overriding role.
Every little kick, punch, flip, or dance move you’re cranking out in there (I swear sometimes you’re doing the worm) reminds me that you’re an actual, real, little human – and it’s incredible.
Is it bad if my bump is kind of lopsided?