As a partner-in-pregnancy, you may be feeling uncertain this Valentine’s Day. So, as a mom who is currently giving the magnificent science experiment of reproduction a second whirl, let me offer some words of wisdom. First, let me dissuade you from gifting your lover any baby gear. Though she may not realize it yet, your partner is slowly losing her own identity and will soon be known, for the most part, as Some Kid’s Mom. She will be reaching for convo topics other than feeding schedules and her Spotify Top Songs list will consist of selections from the Captain Underpants soundtrack and that Kanye poop song. All that to say, give her something for her, not the life-sucking miracle growing within.
Let’s consider the usuals:
Flowers. Solid option. (Also note: just because your lady is up to her ribs in baby, does not mean she can’t enjoy a little eye candy).
Jewelry. Sure, just as long as you avoid rings as her fingers will soon blow up to the girth of bratwursts. Commerce at the Adolphus is a great place to grab a pretty vintage necklace on your way home, plus they have adorable European kids toys (and I know I just said that thing about baby stuff, but adorable Parisian trinkets are the one exception as long as they also come with something for her).
Chocolates. Tricky, because of course pregnancy can change the palate. The woman who usually enjoys potent bean-to-bar sweets from a local purveyor may now crave something more simple like peanut M&Ms. Or a treat may be found in the form of two tall glasses of chilled milk or a steak served with ketchup which may be an abomination to your meat-purist beliefs, but you will just have to f*cking hold your tongue for a few short months.
Your wang. If she’s in month two or three, it’s best to just give her the good spot on the sectional and leave her be while you watch Netflix. Month nine: all she wants is a 7-hour foot rub to relieve her Jessica Simpson feet. But if she’s feelin’ the second trimester’s sexy hormones, then definitely take advantage. It might be months—even years!—before you have the time and energy to engage in any kind of love making beyond a 60-second bathroom sesh while your kid’s twirling with the blue-footed booby bird on Little Einsteins.
But what does your gestating lady really want? Sleep. Just a solid seven hours. She’ll settle for six. And no, there is nothing you can do about her eight nocturnal visits to the toilet, buuut bragging about the REM bars tracked by your Apple Watch last night is literally the LEAST you can do. Getting up with her at 2:46 a.m. to offer a reflux-relieving Tums, helping her rearrange her seventeen pillows, massaging around her aching hips, and then softly petting her back until you hear snores as loud as a Peterbilt is really just, like, one notch up from that.
[DISCLAIMER: The contents of this post may be intended for one particular FrontBurner reader and may or may not reflect the needs, wants, or desires of every expectant mom.]
