If presented with the opportunity, I highly suggest you marry someone completely out of your league. It's fantastic. There are a few lifestyle changes involved, but jogging becomes bearable, and eventually you realize a breakfast of Pop-Tarts and Parliament Lights was never a recipe for success. Adopting Summer's eating and exercise habits turned out to be the gift that kept on giving. I felt better, looked better, and got to use my best shit-eating grin for all the suckers that speak loudly about the joy of being single and free, but stare daggers at me because I out-kicked my coverage. With my wife making literally every single dietary decision, there was no stopping me...
I know pregnancy is not the team endeavor we make it out to be. I fully understand that while we talk about shared experiences, the husband's role is purely support. At no point over our nine month journey did my skin revert to that of a thirteen year old chocolate addict, I didn't have to remain within a penguin sprint of the nearest pee receptacle for the better part of a year, and though it sounded great in theory, no, I did not give up alcohol as a display of solidarity.
Pregnancy is a lot of things, not the least of which is a wild freaking bummer for the women that host these eventual miracles. As a caring husband, I exercised moral support in the best way I knew how - by not exercising at all.
It turns out there is at least one thing that is absolutely NOT a bummer for a pregnant woman. Remember that SNL sketch where Chris Farley plays a Valley Girl eating fries at the mall? In pregnancy we call that Tuesday. I say "we" because eating like garbage is about the only inarguable tandem activity throughout the process.
The weight a husband gains over the course of his wife's pregnancy is often referred to as sympathy weight. I call mine a relapse. The eating that took place was the culinary version of what I imagine a drug binge looks like when an addict is given carte blanche by their sponsor.
"Hey heroine addict, want some heroine?"
"Holy shit, I'd love some heroine..."
Words of advice to all the future fathers out there: DON'T DO IT! IT'S A TRAP!
Believe it or not, I voiced my concern multiple times over the course of our nine month bender. Each time I was assured by "you know who" that this condition was temporary. As soon as the baby was born we would flip the switch, cut out all the bad food and get back in a work-out groove. Hook. Line. Sinker.
Seven week into parenthood, a significant portion of Summer's baby weight is sleeping next to me in something called a Boppy, while the rest has burned off naturally. Mine is sitting between my laptop and I as though we're siblings that wouldn't stop bickering on a family road trip. We're right back to being a hot girl and the pear-shaped fool that looks terrible in t-shirts.
I might exercise today if there is time, but someone has to watch Gabe while Summer knocks out her second workout of the day. It seems that getting in shape is no more a team endeavor than pregnancy.