Jabba

The glow of pregnancy, when the woman strolls barefoot atop a grassy hill, sipping iced tea and inhaling the fresh Sunday morning air, hasn't arrived yet. We are in the couch stage. You know, the one where she lies on the couch.

"All you do is lie there and incubate our fetus."
"Bring me Teddy Grahams and Nutella, servant boy."

Really, she's a lot like Jabba the Hutt.


Don't get me wrong. She doesn't look anything like the vile gangster from Tatooine. But she does lie around a lot, and I sense that if we had a Sarlacc pit in our front yard, she would have me thrown into it (to be painfully digested over thousands of years) if I suddenly failed to comply with her commands.


I can't imagine how much energy it must take to function all day while simultaneously growing a person inside of you. Julie does well at work, but when she gets home, she crashes. I frequently have to wake her up because it's bedtime. Luckily, she still has her sense of humor.

"You're like Jabba the Hutt, you know."
"I don't even know what that is. Is it that fat gremlin?"