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Dear husband, I’m so sorry… (And Other First-Trimester Reparations)

Cropped image of a man and a pregnant woman both holding their bellies
Dear husband,
I’m sorry that I haven’t kissed you on the lips for three months. It’s not you, it’s me—my olfactories, I mean. Something in me changed, and now your breath is like cauliflower, and I just can’t…
I’m sorry that I complain about nausea. Every. Day. (Hint: No such thing as too much sympathy. Load it on thick; I can take it.).
I’m sorry that I plead, beg, and nag for help with meal planning. I must be hard to come up with dinner ideas when I promptly shoot them down (“Sorry, no onions.” “Oh, I’m not into cream right now.” “Woof, crock pot is out. I can’t stand the smell of meat all day”). New plan: let’s eat cereal and fruit for dinner.
I’m sorry that you cook dinner four times a week. And by “sorry” I mean, “Wow, how did I marry the perfect man?” Thank you. Food is so much easier to eat when I don’t have to think about it or smell it prior to consumption.
I’m sorry that I pack church snacks for Lucy… And for me… But not for you. This oversight is easily rectified. Meet me on the North side of the church building during Sunday School. You’ll find me there, with food, every week.
I’m sorry that my figure is beginning to resemble that of the Pillsbury dough boy. But thank you for taking my body in all sizes and stages. I feel 100% acceptance from you. Further evidence that I married the perfect man.
I’m sorry that we aren’t eating cookies before bed any more. This is just weird. Apparently wee offspring number two didn’t get the memo that our family is serious about cookie consumption. Hopefully this problem with rectify itself in utero, because I really miss our evening indulgence.
Lastly, I’m sorry that I wrote this in apologies rather than in praise. Really, I just wish to applaud you for persisting, supporting, sympathizing, and loving me during three rather unloveable months.
Here’s to second trimester, love. In which my belly will blossom, in which we can kiss again, and in which onions will be allowed in the kitchen once more (maybe).

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Jenny Harris
Jenny is a star-gazing, book-clubbing mother of two. She has a Master’s degree in Human Development and Family Studies, which is mildly comical (but also a boon in parenting and relationships). Her kids will attest that she’s crazy about reading aloud, time out of doors, and creative play. Her family’s goal is the “abundant life,” as prescribed by Jesus. You can read more posts by Jenny here.

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