…A friend who can lend your husband an Empathy Belly for the weekend, so he can begin to understand what you’re whining about. Our last loan from her collection was a set of model uteruses, and that was brilliant, too. A worthy adornment for any mantelpiece. I was sad we couldn’t keep them.
The Belly of Empathy includes a rib belt to restrict his breathing, a hard pouch to poke him in the bladder, a heavy water-filled bump and two lead balls rolling around inside to simulate little knees and elbows. Sadly nothing that might feel like a foot hooked behind your ribcage, and no extra chins in the bag either, though we did look. We worked out that the extra weight is about the same as what I’ll be carrying by full-term, at least if I keep eating this much pizza. According to the instructions, he’s not supposed to wear it for longer than two hours, for health reasons (HO HO). The push-ups didn’t go especially well.
Some direct quotes from Mr Jeffcoat yesterday evening:
‘I am wearing a flak jacket! A flak jacket with breasts!’
‘Ooh, it’s hard to bend over. I’ll give you that’.
(Yelled from the bedroom): ‘I can still go up the stairs two at a time!’
‘Look, don’t pull the smock too tight. You’re ruining my boobs’.
‘Now all I want to do is rest a drink on my belly. Convenience!’
I knew we were getting there when he started groaning as he sat down. Yessssss, feel the burn.
I have to admit, I am jealous of the boobs.