Chris likes to make rules for me while I'm pregnant: things that I want to do and cannot and things that I don't want to do and must. It is the sort of thing that is hopelessly endearing and also sort of hot, that at the same time makes me wish he would shut the fuck up already. I think he does it because he can play the fetus card and have at least a chance of getting me to do what he says, whereas most of the time I either ignore him or tell him where he can shove his bossy, "because I'm your husband" attitude.
Or it may just be that pregnancy is his turn to be the rational one in this relationship. We usually alternate - I convince him that the sky is not, in actual fact, currently falling one day, and he talks me out of whatever tree I've chased myself up the next. These days, Chris is the one lecturing me that if I got less than three hours sleep the night before, a nap is a far better option than a trip to the gym. Or a pedicure. But see, I really need a pedicure. And he's right on that. He says I'm stubborn (and probably thinks, but wisely does not say, that I am also stupid), but I prefer to believe that pregnancy impairs my brain to the point that logic and I just decide to part company for a while.
Chris's big Pregnancy Rule for Beth this go-round, thanks largely to our recent move and my habit of stacking a phone book, a toddler chair and a sturdy basket into a pile to climb so I can reach the top of the cabinets, or whatever, is No Standing on Chairs. Although, it is far more complicated than that. I may not stand on a kitchen chair, but it's perfectly fine to stand on the kitchen counters. Apparently the living room chairs are acceptable as well, but that may only be when I am rescuing my husband from a terrifying spider the size of a pea.
I think the rules are a little silly. After all, I've done this before and I am certainly not going to do anything to endanger the safety of our fetus, or my own ass for that matter as I am not a fan of pain. But I abide by them, for the most part. At least when Chris is home. When he isn't home... well... what he doesn't know and all of that.
I bring this up, because I have a pile of empty boxes that need to be relocated to the attic, and I am fairly sure that Chris would Not Approve of my hauling them up the very sturdy ladder myself. And I am also fairly sure that he would notice, forcing me to either admit that I climbed the ladder and face the lecture or come up with some story about how a roving gang of elves came storming through the neighborhood early this morning and I gave them a nickel apiece and all the leftover Chinese food in the fridge to haul the boxes for me. Somehow, I don't think he would buy that.
Sigh. I guess I'll have to clean the bathrooms instead (with all-natural, non-toxic products only, of course). It just doesn't sound like nearly as much fun.
Also hey, we're guessing Wally's gender over here today, if you are so inclined.