When my boyfriend called me disgusting for describing my pregnancy symptoms, I decided he was right. I never told him another thing about the pregnancy—including when I went into labor. I’d been with Jerry for four years when he humiliated me at our baby shower.
It was at a fancy country club he insisted on. My cousin asked why my eyes looked so red, and I explained that I’d thrown up so hard that morning that the blood vessels had burst. Jerry exploded.
“Shut up! Nobody wants to hear about your bloody eyes and vomit! Can you just be pregnant without making it everyone else’s problem?
It’s revolting!”
The entire room went silent. His own sister tried to intervene, but he doubled down. “What?
I’m supposed to pretend all this isn’t gross? Yesterday, she described how her nipples are leaking. Last week, it was about her discharge and cellulite.
We get it. You’re pregnant. Your body is doing nasty things.”
His mom gasped.
“Jerry, she’s carrying your child!”
“That doesn’t mean I need to hear about every disgusting thing happening to her! This is supposed to be a happy day, and she’s making me lose my appetite.”
I calmly set down my drink. “You know what?
You’re absolutely right. I won’t disgust you with any more updates, Jerry.”
He looked surprised, then pleased. “Finally.
Thank you. See? Not that hard to keep all that private.”
From that moment on, he was in the dark.
Two days later, Jerry found me getting dressed for my 20-week anatomy scan. “What time is the appointment? I’ll drive.”
“Oh, I’m going alone,” I said brightly.
“I don’t want to subject you to disgusting pregnancy stuff.”
“But we find out if it’s a boy or a girl today!”
“Yeah, and that involves a technician pressing a wand covered in gel all over my stomach while we look at our baby’s private parts on a screen. Plus, they measure all the organs. Pretty gross medical stuff, right?”
“That’s different!”
“No, it’s not.
You said pregnancy details revolt you. I’m respecting that.”
I took an Uber. When he showed up anyway, I made him wait in the lobby.
The next day, his mom called him, crying tears of joy. “You’re having a boy! He looks perfect!
And you better have already apologized to your fiancée!”
Jerry stormed into the bedroom. “You told me the doctor said we’d have to wait a few more weeks!”
“I only said that so you wouldn’t be disgusted,” I replied. “Didn’t want you losing your appetite.”
“You can’t keep the gender from me!”
“I’m not keeping anything.
I’m protecting you from revolting pregnancy talk. Just like you asked.”
When people asked about baby names, I discussed them enthusiastically with everyone except him. Our friends knew we were considering James.
His parents knew about Thomas. “Why won’t you tell me the names you’re considering?” he demanded. “Discussing the baby requires mentioning pregnancy.
That’s off-limits. Remember?”
“This is insane!”
“This is literally what you demanded.”
At 28 weeks, my feet swelled so badly that when I pressed them, the indents stayed like memory foam. My vision kept getting black spots.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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