Carmine and Experience
(ok, now I can finish what I started)
HEY! We're only going to be in one house this time. I know, I'm excited too. Now settle down while I tell you a little story about Carmine and Experience Woodstock.
Background: Carmine is pregnant (with the help of his brother) by his wife, Experience. Experience worries constantly that Carmine will be harmed as a result of his all consuming desire to procreate. It won't be long until she can have a panic attack as Carmine ushers the next generation of DeTreville/Woodstock's into Nocheat. (Experience narrates)
I have no problem admitting I'm glad Carmine is the one gestating this fetus. Every sim has a line they won't cross and childbirth is mine.
But just because I'm relieved I'm not incubating the thing doesn't mean I'm not worried.
And a little freaked out.
Having a pregnant husband is weird. He waddles around the house in sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt. I miss his leather jacket. I'm sure it wouldn't zip around his distended stomach.
Speaking of which, it kind of grosses me out.
But he wears it like a badge of honor. And he's SO happy. So when he stops mid sentence and tells me he feels it moving, I try not to let on how completely repulsed I am.
Then, he asks me if I want to feel it. What can I say? No? And see the disappointment on his face? So I try to just gently brush my hand over it. But he's set a trap for me. As my hand ever so lightly ticks against his protruding belly, both his hands come up and cover mine. And he presses my hand against his stomach.
It's every bit as horrific as I had imagined, except not as mushy.
And then I feel it. It moves. Writhing under my husband's flesh like some bad horror movie prop. He sees the look of shock on my face but doesn't realize how hard I'm working to hold back the bile rising in my throat.
Why did he do this to himself?
I know, it sounds horrible. I love him, really I do, it's a lot to get used to.
But to him it's no big deal. Like he just has a beer gut. I wish it was just a beer gut. I wouldn't mind running my hand over that. Beer bellies don't squirm when you touch them.
What's worse, he's always randy. Yes, always. Please, it's difficult to disguise that kind of thing in sweatpants, even with a writhing stomach jutting out past it.
I can symathize. Hormones can really mess you up. But there's no way I could. . .ew. No. Never. I try and lend a hand (if you get my drift) but woo-hoo? I'd rather go without, thanks.
And when he's not trying to hump my leg, he's complaining about a myriad of other woes. And because I'm so terrified something will happen to him, I take each one seriously. First it was the nausea and vomiting, then the cravings, and the swelling this and inflamed that. I never wanted to know about my husband's hemmoroids. I love him but there are some things you just don't need to share.
I call up Arturo and ask him about each new ailment and if it was normal. I do internet searches to help find remedies to ease his pain.
I try to have patience with him. But when he put our bed on a slope to help ease his heartburn, I had to start sleeping in the other room. I can't sleep half sitting up. And it's hard to sleep alone, once you get used to someone snoring away beside you.
When he finally goes into labor, he nearly gives me a heart attack.
I hear this ungodly wailing coming from what used to be our bedroom (before the bed incline thing) and I immediately run through all the terrible things I've worried about from the moment he told me he wanted to get pregnant.
Tears come to my eyes. And I don't cry. I just don't.
I race upstairs and he's holding his stomach, screaming and crying out and my minds racing. . .what if it gets stuck and won't come out, what if there's bleeding and it won't stop, what if, what if, what if. . .but worst of all, what if it's dead. How will my husband, who wants this more than anything, survive if it doesn't. How will I be able to look at him everyday for the rest of our lives and see the deep scar of his most painful failure.
Please, don't let it be dead.
Then, it just comes out. Just like that, it comes out.
And it cries.
I actually scream, "It's alive." Yes, like I was Dr. Frankenstein and it was my monster. "It's alive."
I don't think anyone noticed.
Carmine cuddles it, holds it to him, whispers to it.
Then, he turns and looks at me.
And if I live to be one hundred years old I'll never see anything as perfect as that smile. Pure happiness. And even though I'm a wreck, barely able to take a full breath and sweating like a long shoreman, I smile back.
"Look, Ex. Isn't she beautiful." Carmine tries to put her in my arms. I freeze. I can't. I can't take her.
"It's ok, Ex, she won't bite." He gently offers her up to me again.
"Carmine. . ." I move back, away from her. It's not even a full step but Carmine notices. He pulls her back against his body. He's still smiling but it's not the same. He's hurt. And it's my fault.
Then he turns away from me completely. He's never turned his back on me before. He coos to her, bouncing her in his arms, making kissing sounds.
"Carmine, I'm just not ready. . ." I offer.
I stare at his back, his dreadlocks brushing against the collar of the jacket I had looked forward to seeing him in again. Without turning around he replies, "Don't worry about it, Ex." And in the shining darkness of that jacket I see what I'm really missing.
Carmine.
He's changed.
But I still feel the same.