Every husband can attest to the fact that within their pregnant wives, there are actually two pregnant women. No, this is not a crude joke about my husband’s boudoir talents and his inadvertently impregnating the infant with his unsurpassed doing-it skills. That would be crossing a line. Rather, this is an insight into pregnancy that I think few women would admit is actually true. The fact is, dear readers, that there are two of me. More than you can probably handle, I know. How do you think I feel?

First of all there is “daytime pregnant lady” and she is together. She’s got plans and schedules, she writes things like appointments and classes down in a tiny organized day timer. She keeps multiple pens within arm’s reach. This woman eats healthy, socializes and works (with makeup and a smile on her face.) She is the perfect vision of handling pre-motherhood with style and grace. She’s a fucking superstar. When you ask her if she is excited, “Yes!” she exclaims, and by God you believe her. This is daytime pregnant lady, and everyone thinks she’s got it made. Everyone assumes she’s ready—set—go, just waiting on the arrival of the super-pooper extraordinaire. What else can she do but wait? She’s just that organized.

But under the noses of all those onlookers lurks another, and she ain’t pretty ladies and gents. It’s “night time pregnant lady” and she is a bloody freaking mess. Let me tell you about my dear friend, she is quite frankly the most dramatic bitch I’ve ever met. She keeps me from sleep, she cries, she whines. She’s an unorganized adult in reverse, a soon-to-be sunken ship. She tells me as she shakes me awake nightly, that she can’t do this. Not the pregnancy part, not the labour and certainly not the mothering part. But, at the same time, oddly, she’s a shopper. She’s the one who decided we need a rocking chair for our under-equipped for space living room. Crazy night lady is the one who wants to nest. It’s the only thing that calms her down, so sue me, I oblige. My pregnant self at night is also a foodie. Oh yes. She drags me out under the moon in my tightly-clung-to-pregnancy-fat nighty to 7/11 for that one irresistible treat —the slushy — a product that doesn’t reflect the components of real food in any way. This is a drink that not only am I allergic to, (dastardly food colouring) but shouldn’t be drinking because I’m a very good candidate for the contraction of Gestational Diabetes. This woman is completely out to lunch and should be in a straight-jacket at all times. Why isn’t she? Well, nobody sees her but me, and ok, Hubby sees her too. Problem is Hubby has witnessed six years of insane behaviour so for him maybe this isn’t exactly newsworthy.

I don’t know how but I am in fact two different people in a twenty-four period. One isn’t normal because she’s organized to the point of being OCD and the other is a blithering idiot who doesn’t recognize that women have been doing this mommy thing for centuries. Oddly neither of them are anything like me! Fuck, I’m living in the twilight zone.

Here is the only good news I came with this week. There seems to be a version of Hubby that only emerges at night as well. As you might expect, at the six month mark daytime pregnant lady was all over buying herself maternity pants. There she was standing in front of this fit, yoga-trained beauty at the maternity wear store saying, “Listen, I’m fat but I’m also pregnant. You’ve got no clothes here for me, where the hell do real women go to find clothes that fit?” She gets her answer and she’s off. No muss, no fuss. But daytime pregnant lady still has elements of the real me, so obviously as soon as she is home she trying desperately to get hubby into said maternity pants so she can enjoy a laugh at his expense. Daytime Hubby is consistently and rightly telling her to sod off, but DTPL is persistent. Until nightfall she’s on him like white on rice without rest. Over dinner, there is a lull in her annoying constant pecking, but when she resumes — night time Hubby has finally emerged.

As I sit in the tub, awaiting my own personality overhaul who should come around the corner and into the bathroom? None other than night time Hubby wearing my maternity pants and casually walking a fashionista strut. This, dear readers, is why my marriage is going to go the distance. I laughed until a little pee came out.