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TEXT FROM MUM:Tess, it’s your mum. Funny story—turns out Mr. Whiskers was in our apartment the whole time. He was just trapped in the linen closet. Poor thing had to shred up some pillow cases to use as a litterbox. Do you know where the palace buys the bedding? Or do you think we have to replace them at all? Your father is saying it can come out of all the tax money we pay, but I’m not so sure.
***
IT'S LATE SUNDAY MORNING, and I've been sitting on the side of the bathtub for about fifteen minutes now, post-shower. Things went off the rails this morning while Arthur and I were having a bit of a lie in after having eaten breakfast in bed (eggs Benedict with a side of fruit. Okay,hehad the side of fruit, and I had a side of bacon, but I am eating for three now, so...).
Anyway, I know I'm hormonal, no need to tell me that,especiallyif you’re married to me.Arthur lay on top of the sheets with his very tight abs on display while he flipped channels on the telly. I have to mention, I normally find those abs quite pleasing, but since my own body is morphing at an alarming rate, I now find those well-defined muscles to be the bane of my existence.
Before you sarcastically say, “Oh, Tessa, I feelso sorryfor you having such a hot husband,” please hear me out. It hardly seems fair that he should keep his perfect body, his brain isn't shrinking, and he doesn't have to face the barrage of incredibly irritating things that people say and do to you when you're pregnant, and yet we’ll both end up sharing the children when this is all said and done. So somehow, those rock-hard abs have become a sign of the great disparity between men and women, with us poor women getting the shit end of the stick.
But I digress. Back to the fight. Arthur was watching the news while I was looking online for cribs on my laptop. I found one I thought would be suitable, and by that I mean apparently doesn't give off toxic VOC emissions, is made from solid wood, has the slats appropriately close together so that the babies won’t get their little heads stuck, and is adjustable, turning into a toddler bed when the baby becomes a toddler, thus allowing us to save money. (I’m nothing if not a very practical princess).
While I was doing this, Veronica Platt and Nigel Wood (that horrid fashion critic who loves to tear me apart) were doing a segment on fitness apparel. Veronica was modeling the latest from Kate Hudson's Fabletics line.
I tried to show the crib to Arthur, but he has apparently become enthralled with ladies’ yoga pants and couldn’t tear his eyes away from the screen. In fact, he held his hand up to me and said, “Hang on a second. I'm trying to watch this."
To which I replied, "Really? Are you planning to buy a pair of Fabletics pants for yourself? Or is it just the sight of her long, gorgeous legs that has you riveted?"
"Oh, you noticed them as well?" he asked with a surprised smile.
His smile faded the instant he noticed the look on my face, but by then, it was too late. We ended up getting into a most spectacular row about her legs, which then took a detour down “you probably wish we were hiring a sexy, young nanny” road and ended with me in tears in the shower.
Possibly the worst part is that Arthur seemed to think I was setting some type of trap for him, using Veronica's sleek, sexy gams as bait. This could not be further from the truth sinceI'mnot the one who turned the TV on in the first place, and all I was trying to do is shop for furniture for our unborn babies. It's not my fault he was drooling like that dad fromA Christmas Storywho won the leg lamp.
So now, I’ve been torturing myself with a thorough examination of my changing body and doing my very best to make peace with it in an effort not to allow the dejection I’m feeling to take over. After all, pregnancy is not only the most natural thing in the world, but it is quite beautiful. It just seems likeso much beautiful, if you know what I mean.
The other day, I saw a very sexy photo of Victoria Beckham pregnant, sitting on her husband's lap, her tiny legs splayed out in a ballet pose with her big baby bump on display. I imagined me and Arthur posing like that, but even imagining it made me cringe. My legs are not tiny little dainty sticks that jut out from under my belly like Victoria’s. Not even close. They’re puffy and bloated, like the rest of me. It's like my entire body, including my face, has become pregnant. If I look really closely at my hair, I’m certain the hair follicles are farther apart than they were a few weeks ago. Can the top of your head gain weight?
Oh, screw it, Tessa. Just get on with your day. I close my robe, knotting the sash, then set to work rubbing cream on my face and elbows. I don't really want to leave this bathroom because I have a sneaking suspicion my next conversation with my husband will include words I really don't want to hear, like hormones and overreacting. And those words would be accurate, wouldn't they?
Last year, had Arthur and I been in the same situation, I would've given him a light smack on the arm to get his attention, and then we would've had a bit of a laugh about it. But the truth is, right now I may be taking things very personally, and it’s possible that I go from happy to rage-y in zero-point-six seconds flat. Then later, I feel rather embarrassed at my reactions.
On Friday, for example, Gillian brought me my morning scones to my desk, and they turned out to be cinnamon raisin, when I had been fantasizing about white chocolate raspberry scones since breakfast. This is not normally something that would reduce me to tears, but I'm afraid in this situation it did. Lucky for me, Gillian has had three children herself, so when I burst into sobs, she just patted my hand and said, "Good, love. This just shows you've got the right amount of hormones at this point in your pregnancy."
"Does that mean you'll order me some raspberry white chocolate scones?"
"Oh, heavens no. Feeding you more than three scones a day would be reckless. How about I’ll have them for you tomorrow?"
The whole thing was humiliating on so many levels. I mean, honestly, crying over scones? Hmm...now that I think about it, I’m getting hungry again, which makes sense because it is almost eleven and I haven’t eaten since breakfast. I suppose I’ll have to leave the bathroom if I’m going to eat again.
Oh God, I really am turning into a Hobbit, aren’t I? If I could get close enough to the tops of my feet, I’d be checking them for hair.
A knock on the door interrupts my thoughts, and Arthur's muffled voice makes its way through the wood slab. "Tessa, are you planning to spend all day hiding from me? Because I’d really like us to have a nice Sunday together, and we can't very well do that if you're locked in the bathroom."
I sigh heavily, then force myself to open the door and be a grownup. When I look at Arthur, I see that he's wearing an expression of remorse. He reaches out and rubs my upper arms with both hands and says, "I'm sorry. I was being a complete arse earlier."
"Yes, you were." I give him a slight smile to assure him that I've calmed down some.
“It's just that sometimes, I forget that you are not only my friend to whom I can tell anything, you're also my very beautiful wife. In that moment earlier, I forgot who I was talking to."
"Yes, that's because you were distracted by Veronica Platt’s gorgeous legs in tight workout pants."
"They're not that gorgeous. And honestly, I was really more fascinated with how Kate Hudson manages to make those pants and sell them at such low prices."
I let out a small laugh, then say, "Idiot."
Arthur pulls me into his arms, “I’myouridiot.
"While we’re making admissions, I may be slightly under the influence of pregnancy hormones at the moment, which may or may not cause me to have more...robust reactions to things than normal."
"Really? I hadn't noticed at all. I'll have to keep that in mind over the next few weeks so as not to upset you unnecessarily."
“That might be wise.”
“I thought we could have a Sunday do-over. I’ve ordered crepes for elevenses. Why don’t you show me these cribs, and then we can talk prams while we eat?”
