As any mom can tell you, pregnancy comes along with a bunch of good and bad things:

Good: a beautiful (one would hope) baby
Bad: a blown-out vagina

Good: awesome boobs
Bad: a belly that rivals Homer Simpson’s

Good: the ability to eat anything you want without judgment
Bad: the ability to smell everything in a twelve mile radius

But, you see, Interwebs, I have an additional little pro/con for my list…

The Crazed Over-Protective Husband

Sure, sure, you say, all soon-to-be-fathers freak out a little before the bouncy bundle of poop and spit-up joy arrives!

Oh no.

I’m not talking about your average husband who maybe gives you a break from the heavy lifting around the house for a few months.

I’m talking ker-azy, people.

Here’s an example:

The other night, I headed out for a typical girl’s night watching The Bachelor. The next morning, we were scheduled to have our garage door, which had recently begun to split in two upon opening and closing (kind of inconvenient), replaced. It struck me before I left for the evening that I should park across the street from our house so I (more accurately, Mr. Bee) wouldn’t have to shuffle my car around in the morning before the garage dudes showed up.

When I suggested my brilliant plan to Mr. Bee, he adamantly said, “Oh no no no. Just park in the garage or the driveway. I’ll move it in the morning.”

I, being the logical (and stubborn) one, responded with, “But that doesn’t make any sense. I’ll just park it on the street. Duh.”

And this is when Mr. Bee said:

…wait for it…

“I don’t want you walking across the street.”

I’ll let that sink in for a minute…

…

And let me specify, we don’t live on a freeway, drag racing course or in a monster truck rally. In fact, we live in a very quiet, gated community. So the chances of even seeing a car (driving probably below the speed limit) at 10 o’clock at night is pretty low to begin with.

But to satisfy my crazy husband, I parked in the driveway.

Because I know a good thing when I see it.

See, Mr. Bee might constantly remind me to use the handrail up and down the stairs and get irritated when I don’t give him the opportunity to fetch a blanket for me (heavens! I’ll actually fetch it myself!! What was I THINKING?!?), but the awesomeness of this situation is…I haven’t had to do jack shit for 3+ months.

And this will continue until I pop this little vagina parasite out my babyhole!

We’re talking no cleaning (TOXIC FUMES!!), no grocery shopping (THE BAGS ARE TOO HEAVY!!), and, obviously, nothing as strenuous as walking across the street.

So while I do contend that Mr. Bee could probably use one (or five) of my Lexapro, I’ll keep my complaining in check.

Except for maybe when he yells at me to use the handrail. I’m not fucking retarded, after all.

Song title: Husband and Father by Bryan MacLean