I was out late last night. Ok, like really late, like six in the morning late. Every Monday and Wednesday I’m in class till 10:30. Afterward I go out for a drink with my classmates. Last night’s drink became dancing in the Lower East Side, and then hanging out with people at some girl’s apartment in Gramercy.
Throughout the night Gramercy Girl kept saying, “Don’t you have a pregnant wife to be home with?” Not only was it incredibly rude – the host not-so-subtly telling me to leave – but it gets on my nerves when people say this, because it implies that I’m a neglectful partner. Honestly, it’s only been women who have thrown this line at me, usually women in their early twenties who, maybe, have a hard time imagining what it must be like to be pregnant or don’t know anyone who’s ever been pregnant and so hold old fashioned ideas that the husband should be chained at his wife’s side serving her every need. This sentiment reflects badly not only on me, but on my wife. As if she needs to have me around to take care of her, or provide company at eleven o’clock on a weeknight. She’s pregnant but not powerless!
Though she is tired at the end of the day. When I’m heading off to school S’s day is winding down, and she’s asleep long before my class even lets out. What’s it to her whether I’m downstairs watching television or out having a drink with friends? She doesn’t care. Over the past two weekends I’ve managed to have nice dinners and evenings with her and then go out, after she hits the hay around nine or so, to have a Saturday night with friends. There’s no point being around the house when she’s sleeping – at least not until sometime in the third trimester. If anything, I feel I should be going out more in the next few months, since next summer I’ll have an infant to mind. Then I’ll be around every night, because that’s when she’ll need me.