Your Wife's Pregnancy Is Like Watching Football

January 31, 2011, By John Cave Osborne 2 comments

Have you ever heard the phrase you are what you eat? Certain amount of truth to it, right? Well I’ve got another one for you. Your wife’s pregnancy is what you watch. Because that’s what seems to be happening to us.

Let me make something very clear. I’m NOT afraid to watch sports. Nor, for that matter, am I afraid to watch the NFL playoffs. In fact, I’ve been doing so with my typical abandon this year despite the fact that it often feels like I have more kids than the Walton’s.

Plus the Brady’s.

And the more I watch these NFL playoffs, the more my wife’s pregnancy seems to resemble them.

Let’s start with the esthetically obvious. At 13 weeks, my lovely and petite wife is starting to show — just a slight hump between her breasts and hips. About the size of, well, a football. And since I’ve been watching so much of it, I’m starting to wonder if our 3-year-old triplets haven’t mistaken it for such. Because they’re chasing her around like all-pro linebackers. Don’t get me wrong. They engaged in plenty of clamorous pursuits of Caroline in the pre-pregnancy days. But now that she’s with child, they’ve clearly escalated to a feverish pitch, ones with a do-or-die-intensity. An intensity, I might point out, which is prevalent in the games which have served as the backdrop to many such pursuits.

When they inevitably catch her, it’s not a pretty sight. Much like three defensive linemen who meet at the quarterback, our terrible trio attempt to level my beautiful signal-caller, their six hands grabbing a hold of her in any manner possible, making even the most thorough TSA pat down come off like a mere fist bump.

I know what you’re thinking. Instead of lining up under center, maybe she should operate out of the shotgun to buy herself some more time in the pocket. But we’re already married. So this pregnancy is obviously not a shotgun situation.

As I watched divisional rivals Green Bay and Chicago battle on my television, I watched multiple rivals battle in my living room. No, there were no cheese heads in attendance, nor were there any bears. But we do have a mascot.

A brown dog named Briggs. (No relation to Lance Briggs who plays linebacker for Chicago.) And Briggs has suddenly taken a keen interest to Caroline. Though this is not without precedent.

You see, the last time Caroline was pregnant, she was convinced that Briggs somehow knew. I called it bullshit for the first week or two, but eventually even I had to concede that Briggs was acting differently. He followed Caroline around 24/7, constantly by her side. He used to only shadow me, but during her previous pregnancy, my entrances into the house garnered nothing more than a dismissive glance and maybe a yawn before he’d lie back down right next to his new number one.

Same thing this time around, much to Caroline’s chagrin. Don’t get me wrong. She doesn’t dislike Briggs. But she is allergic to him, not to mention she sorta thinks he’s gross (perineal lipstick licking isn’t helping, Briggs), always believing him to be dirtier than he really is.

Which means our signal caller is thinking about running a trick play — the flea-flicker. But so far, she’s refrained. She knows too much is at stake to get too cute. So for now, she’ll endure Briggs’ proximity even as she tries to protect herself from our little pass-rushers.

Hmm. Maybe we could coach Briggs up a little bit. You know, show him how to identify then pick up the DB blitzing out of the nickel package. Or at least teach him how to trip a triplet.

Luckily the Super Bowl looms in the not-so-distant future, which means the NFL playoff will be over before we know it. Which is a good thing, because I don’t know how much more of these gridiron-conditions my wife can handle.

Wait. What about the rule I’ve learned throughout all this? Namely that your wife’s pregnancy is what you watch? Next up is NASCAR. (Sorry. I don’t watch the NBA til the playoffs.) And I’m not so sure that Caroline can handle bump drafting with our trio (whose engines are always revving) as she heads into turn number two.

Oh well. I guess only time will tell.