Love with a Babywipe

When I was pregnant with The Son I had horrendously horrible morning sickness. The smell of toothpaste made me gag, and the odors of any meat products made me want to curl up and die. Wendy’s was the most evil place on earth. I lost twenty pounds in the first five months of pregnancy.

The Husband was phenomenal during this time. He brought me juice and crackers in bed every single morning. He ate like a vegan even though bacon courses through his veins. I was spoiled, pampered and the well-loved vessel for his genetic material. My wish was his command.

Ash Wednesday fell right smack in the middle of my first trimester, and I went to church feeling like the only thing I was going to give up for Lent was food. I got my mandatory cross on the forehead made from last year’s palms. I came home, sipped my ginger ale, and deposited myself prone on the bed. I was just about to roll over and sleep when I remembered the black ash all over my forehead, and my lovely white sheets. The bathroom was a whole twelve feet away and that was entirely too far. When The Husband came into our room, I whined “Honey, wipe my ash for me.”

“Um, what?”

“Get a babywipe and wipe my ash, plueeease.”

“Uh, I love you, but no, get up and wipe your own ass.”

After peeing a wee bit from laughter, he changed the sheets while I wiped my own ash.

Filed under Boy is my face red, The Husband | Comments Off