Being pregnant has turned me into a spoiled brat. It’s really everyone else’s fault — no, really! — because people have a tendency to be extraordinarily interested in, nice to, and solicitous of the pregnant woman. I’m not worried too much about it…selfishness will take a huge hit once LilRunr arrives, so enjoying a little special treatment at this point and even becoming a bit of a diva will be taken care of naturally.
Knowing that, it should make perfect sense that when I was lounging comfortably on the living room floor one evening, I should ask Scott to bring me some orange juice. Sure, I was closer to the kitchen than he, and for all I knew he was studying for his engineering exam, but I was thirsty but disinclined to get up. Sure, it makes perfect sense.
Like the dutiful husband he is, Scott got up from the computer and proceeded to the kitchen and the refrigerator, where the requested beverage waited. I continued to watch Star Trek, paying no heed to the dutiful husband as he crossed the living room and set something beside me on the coffee table.
“Thank y– um…” (The item he’d set beside me was the ENTIRE CARTON of orange juice.) “Could I get a glass?”
“Why not just drink from the carton?”
“What? I’m not drinking from the carton.”
“C’mon, you’re the only one drinking it. It’s halfway gone anyway.”
“No. Really. Can you please get me a glass?”
“You’ve met your glass quota for today. Any more and it’s like you’re kicking the environment in the balls.”
“Scott. I really don’t want to drink from the carton. I’m going to spill it.” (He heads towards the kitchen. Victory is at hand!)
“Do you want to kick the environment in the balls?”
“Yes. I want to kick the environment in the balls. Now, bring me a glass!”
Diva mode at its finest. He brings a glass back over, and I’m prepared to chalk up another victory to the spoiled brat when I notice he has that glint in his eye. I should have recognized the goofy mood by the “kick the environment in the balls” comment, but I was pretty well focused on having things proceed according to my will. This is unfortunate. I’m not entirely sure what he’s planning, and I look on nervously as he picks up the carton of OJ and holds it about a foot from the glass…which is only a few feet above my legs. Uh-oh.
“Scott, don’t –” It’s too late. He’s pouring OJ into a glass, as requested, but the distance between glass and carton is about a foot…and increasing. I hold my breath and my tongue — even though I desperately want to say something along the lines of, “Really?!!!” — afraid that if I break his concentration I’ll have an orange juice catastrophe on my hands; or, more appropriately, legs. It’s at the end of the pour, as he’s attempting to right the carton and feeling quite pleased with himself, that disaster strikes. Sigh. Now, I get my opportunity…
“REALLY?! Is that necessary?”
He laughs and returns the orange juice to the fridge, leaving the diva with the requested glass of orange juice…and a little extra for good measure.
Lesson learned. Next time, I may consider it worth the trouble of getting up.