At my prenatal visit yesterday the nurse gave me a sort of Pregnancy Goody Bag. It had diapers in it (hurrah!) some coupons, and a magazine called Countdown (which instantly had me singing Beyonce).

The magazine featured a smiling blonde woman with her shirt pulled up to show her pregnant belly, upon which she'd drawn a cute lil' smiley face in cream. Already repelled and wondering if I'm the only woman alive who doesn't think pregnancy is a cutesy squee-fest, I notice this:


Seriously? Seriously? This isn't Cosmo or every single month of Glamour. If this was "What's He Thinking: What your OB/Gyn REALLY Thinks of Your Uterus and Blood Work Results" or "What are YOU thinking: Have your Brain and Emotions Been Taken Over by Monsters? Maybe!" I would give half a shit. But I am growing a human (and an impressive new set of jugs!) and really would like to hear a whole lot less of what he's thinking.

But, do you want to know what he's thinking? Because it's the last page in the magazine, the thing that YOU should be thinking about (not your baby, not your body) as you close this lovely magazine. It's "The Last Word", because don't men always get it?

HE SAYS: "You're Pregnant? That's awesome!"

HE MEANS: Oh my God, how am I going to pay for this? You can sell a kidney on ebay, right?


I THINK: I hate you. Go to hell. Sell both your kidneys and spare me the fake enthusiasm.

HE SAYS: "Sure, if it's a boy, we can think of naming him after your Uncle Eggbert."

HE MEANS: Eggbert? Who's ever heard of a football player or a fighter pilot named Eggbert? Not gonna happen.


I THINK: Sports! Men only think about sports and risky airplanes! You conceived a child with a preteen!

HE SAYS: "I guess you're right: a minivan is the most practical option."

HE MEANS: I'd rather walk. Barefoot. Over broken glass.

I THINK: These people assume I want a minivan? They are so bad in the snow. Still, a little melodramatic, there.


HE SAYS: "It's never too early to start saving for college, so let's look into a 529 plan."

HE MEANS: Bye-bye 50-inch flatscreen TV.

I THINK : Who wrote this? Jonathan Whitbourne? Of course. Of courrrrrrse. How much are you paid, Jon?


HE SAYS: "Yes, I'll be in the delivery room the whole time holding your hand and looking into your beautiful eyes."

HE MEANS: You better believe I'll be looking into your eyes, because there's no way I'm checking out what's happening on the other side of that sheet.

I THINK: This is making me want to get a divorce.

HE SAYS: "It's a girl! I can't wait to start spoiling my little princess!"

HE MEANS: She's not allowed to date until she's 30. Maybe 35.

I THINK : I have so many problems with everything about this. I seriously don't even want a man in my life. I think my bird would be a better co-parent.


but guys, this is the kicker:

HE SAYS: " I love our baby so much it hurts."

HE MEANS: I love our baby so much it hurts.

I THINK: Awwwww, Jonathan!!!! Too late.

This image encapsulates all of my feelings. The tattoo symbolizes time running out for the relationship. Or something.


* I fully expect to get pamphlets in the retirement home that are like, "Think He's Too Senile to Think Anymore? WRONG!"