Poor Nate needs an English-Pregnancy dictionary to understand me these days.

Oof! could mean the baby is squirming incessantly. Or that I’m trying to get up from the couch on my own. Or that it’s just hot in the apartment and I feel like whining.

Ow! is a toss-up between “baby in the rib cage” and “time for a Pepcid.”

Ow fuck, hold on means “major braxton-hicks contraction happening,” but I’m sure in his semi-anxious state it sounds an awful lot like, “my water broke!”

And if I dare just close my eyes and squint, trying to breathe through one of the frequent cervix pummelings I’ve been getting, the poor guy is ready to make that essential peanut butter sandwich (the last item on on my must-do before hitting the road list), drop it in my hospital bag, and get me the hell out of here.

It’s actually becoming sort of fun, gaging his reactions to my audible eeks and ooches and owies. For a guy who’s just not a gushy, romantic dad-to-be, a guy who hates if I “make him” (his words) touch my squirmy belly, who’s hard-pressed to even have the name discussion–I must say it’s enjoyable seeing him spring to attention when I so much as exhale deeply.

Almost makes it worth the 24/7 discomfort.

Almost.