It’s hard to be a gangsta trying to get knocked up and shit, but not when you got a PIC who be down for da ride, yo. (If you could hear me say that out loud, you would laugh your ass off at what an idiot I sound like. I over enunciate even when I’m trying to be hip to the slang – damn public speaking skillz.)
Anyway, my husband’s OCD and paranoia have begun to manifest themselves in the Baby Rabies. This is the guy who goes to the doctor at least four times a year convinced he has some form of cancer, only to be sent home with some Tums for indigestion. I would be lying if I said I didn’t think it was cute. It is, in fact, very endearing that he’s so wrapped up in all of this. He’s by no means just the “sperm donor,” and I love him for that.
I thought it was so cute when he asked me where the section about increasing male fertility was in TCOYF after admitting to thumbing through it earlier in the day. He has even employed the use of Google the pimp to find out that eating lots of oranges is supposed to improve the quality of his semen. I have now been instructed to pack him at least one orange for lunch for the next two weeks.
However, I am afraid that he’s going to drive us both crazy before we even get around to the whole sperm fertilizing the egg thing. He came home the other day to me blogging with the laptop on my…well, my lap where it belongs. He started spouting some crazy rant about how I just endangered my eggs and begged me to remove it. He then told me how he’s really worried that his sperm count is being affected by all the computers he works around. I told him if that was the case, all of Silicon Valley would become a barren wasteland and we could just give up hope for the future of our society and technology because none of the Bill Gates’ of the world would be able to produce a viable spawn.
He has even gone so far as to stop keeping his cell phone in his pocket. Although, I think I’m with him on that one. It’s a RAZOR, and a bonafide piece of shit. I’m not too comfortable with something that makes every appliance in our apartment buzz whenever it rings being that close the the troops.
Paranoid or not, I guess I need to be grateful that he’s excited about this whole process. I know this is merely the tip of the enormous iceberg that will become my reality when I finally do get pregnant. He’s already spouting off the list of the FDA’s unapproved foods for pregnancy every chance he gets. I’m afraid I’m going to become a closet binge eater who scarfs down my super secret stash of tuna, blue cheese, and cookie dough every time he leaves the house.
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