Week Seven

“Well?” I inquire, fingers crossed for some positive news although the expression on her face says it all.

“Nope” Jo solemnly replies.

“What, nothing at all?”

“Nothing” Her face drops. My heart sinks. A few minutes of awkward silence follows, and then I have an idea:

“What about a spicy vegetable curry?”

“It might work” she replies, now just a little bit more upbeat “I’ll get the menu”.

We repeat a similar ritual to this every time Jo exits the bathroom; she is constipated, and hasn’t had a crap for three days now.

Since we started planning for a baby Jo has been taking vitamin supplements on a daily basis. These contain folic acid, to reduce the risk of the baby being born with any neural tube defects such as Spina Bifida, and iron, to seemly reduce the risk of her having a poo.

The painful constipation is understandably making Jo unhappy, moody and very tetchy, which in an ironic turn, is making me crap my pants.

She is certainly going through some changes, both emotionally and physically; externally and internally. Particularly internally.

First is the, as expected, morning sickness. Typically one big chuck post breakfast is followed periodically throughout the day by what can only be described as a ‘Mini Sick’; each puke accompanied by a proud announcement of: “I’ve just brought up a bit of sick”. Unsure exactly what to do with this information or how best to respond, I can only congratulate her with a genuine heartfelt “well done!”

Her farts are sadly unannounced. Of course I know she breaks wind; we long since passed that milestone in our relationship where we became comfortable farting in front of one another. In fact these days we can barely distinguish between each others; the tangy aromas having seemingly amalgamated into one household odour all of their own. But this is very different; I’ve not experienced anything quite like this since Christmas 1975 when my older brother was given a chemistry set by a well-meaning aunt. The results of his experimentations overwhelmed the usual festive aroma of freshly baked mince pies with an unmistakable stench of rotten eggs.

Her increased flatulence is, in some part, my fault; in an attempt to ease the constipation I have been practically force feeding her a strict diet of beans, green vegetables and lentils.

And Jo is hot in bed. I’m not bragging; she really is hot in bed. Her body temperature seems to have increased somewhat and I fear this will react with her farts, creating unnatural and quite possibly harmful greenhouse gases underneath the quilt.

At the same time she has become much tactile in bed. She likes to cuddle up close to me, which is all very nice except that it makes me uncomfortably warm, which, along with her frequent visits to the toilet, is keeping me awake throughout the night. Although constipated she is still pissing like a pregnant racehorse. Apparently this is due to her growing uterus pressing down on her bladder, but I reckon could equally be due to the six pints of prune juice she’s drinking every day.

But I mustn’t grumble; I’m not the one in pain. But I’m likely to be if the curry
doesn’t do the trick.

Are you a dad? Please take part in my survey