I’m on hoof duty.
Another seldom spoken of characteristic of late pregnancy is the inability to remove one’s own footwear. Several times a day I have a heel thumped onto my thigh with the command to ‘take it off’.
Thankfully, this week’s beauty parlour session included a pedicure, so the trotters that I am faced with the task of undressing are fine specimens. I suspect the pedicure was only thrown in to distract ET while the landscaping crew were changing shift, but I’ll take all the help I can get.
This role has enlightened me, made me wiser. I understand now that the term ‘barefoot and pregnant’ is not an indication of status, but rather an sign that the lady in question couldn’t convince anyone to drop to their knees at the flash of a hoof.
The putting on and removal of socks, slippers, and shoes all fall under my remit, none are tasks to be taken lightly. Pitfalls are many, and traps are easy to plunge into. You pull from the band, not from the toe. Socks must be ‘unrolled’ onto the feet of the fire breathing incubator. Any other method risks the unseemly catching of cotton and toenail, and guarantees your head will be slammed against the side of the desk.
The symbolism of the stance that is taken to perform these duties is not lost on me. Man taking position at a pregnant woman’s feet, adoring, serving, and obeying, but mostly terrified of getting a flat heeled shoe to the temple.
This little piggy patrolman fears for his well being.
2 weeks, 6 days.
Quick, time is ticking, if you haven't pinned your pink or blues to the mast, do so here.