Tears and tortillas

Life has been a little different around here since we found out a month ago that we were expecting a baby. 

And no, I’m not talking about morning sickness, or nausea, or dizzy spells, or any of that not-so-fun-pregnancy-stuff-that-I-have-thankfully-never-experienced.

Instead, I’m referring to hormonal pregnant ladies who love their food.  And I’m referring to my husband.

Take this example:

Last week, we got home from work and Adam offered to whip up some taco meat for dinner.   I love it when my husband offers to cook (which, honestly, happens often because he loves to do it) and of course I took him up on it.  While I waited for dinner to be ready, I kicked off my shoes, put on my favorite pair of sweats, and moseyed on over to the couch where I happily plopped myself down and wasted some time perusing my favorite social media network (….facebook, of course). 

Before I knew it, dinner was ready.  And let’s be honest—it’s a darn good thing, because I was starving. 

So I prance over to the kitchen island, salivate a bit at all the taco goodness spread out before me, and grab my tortilla.  I innocently plop it in the microwave for a 10 second warm-up.  No sooner have I closed the door then I hear a thundering “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” and I am roughly pushed aside by my frantic husband as he yanks open the microwave door and removes the offending tortilla.  Holding it at arms length, he looks at me.  I mean, he looks at me. 

I felt like a teenager who had just been caught sneaking home ten minutes after curfew (which, of course, never happened).  My shoulders drooped. 

“What do you think you’re doing??  Do you have any idea how much bacteria could be living inside our microwave?  You didn’t even have it on top of a plate!”

I look at him, and I do the only thing I can think to do: I cry. 

Big alligator tears. 

“Ijustwantedawarmtortillaaaaa” I blubber. 

He sighs.

If I had waited a moment longer, I would have gotten an apology.  And probably a hug, and a new tortilla.  But did I wait?  Nope.  Remember, I’m pregnant…and they don’t warm you about those darn hormones for nothing.   

I didn’t wait for him to say another word.  I snatched that tortilla out of his hand, made a big production of marching to our trash can, and with a flourish of the wrist, tossed that bacteria-ridden tortilla into the bin.  I gave him the there, are you happy?! eyes, and with one final glare, stomped all the way to our room where I slammed the door with finality, paused to make sure he’d heard, and then threw myself to the ground with my back against the door so Adam couldn’t get in.  And then I cried. Loudly.

It only took a few moments before I heard the footsteps.  And then a cautious attempt to open the door.  And then, a sigh.  “Baby?  I’m sorry.  Will you let me in?  I just wanted to make sure that you and the baby are safe...from bacteria, or anything else”

I considered that for a moment.  Again, I could have opened the door at that moment and gotten my hug and warm tortilla, but…I’m pregnant.  And I didn’t.

“You make me feel like a bad mom!”  I hurled at him through the door, stomping my slippered foot for effect.

Silence.

“You’re not a bad mom.  You’re going to be the best mom.  I’m sorry I made a big deal out of the tortilla….

And then he said it.

“….I love you baby mama”

I could feel a grin spreading across my face.  I love it when he calls me that! The tears stopped.  I stood up and pressed my ear against the door.  I just had one thing left to settle.

“But will you warm up my tortilla?”  


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Ladies, I have the best husband in the world.