Six months pregnant, swollen feet, cravings, and juggling a full-time job, I expected love and support from my husband. But what did I get? A piggy bank with a note telling me to “SAVE UP” for maternity leave. Guess who’s about to get a rude awakening?
Pregnancy is often described as a magical time filled with joy and anticipation. Well, let me tell you, it can also be a time when your husband forgets how to be a decent human. I’m Regina, 35, and I thought I had life figured out—until my dear husband Dan dropped a bombshell that would make even the most patient saint lose their cool.
“Hey, babe!” Dan greeted me as I waddled through the front door, my six-month belly leading the way. “How was work?”
I groaned, kicking off my shoes. “Like being a beached whale in an office chair. But I managed.”
Dan chuckled, noticing the shopping bag in my hand. “Ooh, what’d you buy?”
“A dress that doesn’t make me feel like a stuffed sausage,” I replied, holding up a flowy maternity dress. “It’s comfy, and I need to breathe!”
His eyebrows shot up. “Whoa, big spender! Better watch that paycheck, honey.”
I laughed, assuming he was joking. Oh, how naive I was.
“No, seriously,” he said, his tone suddenly serious. “You should start saving up.”
I blinked. “For what? Baby stuff? We’ve been saving for months.”
Dan shook his head. “No, for when you’re on maternity leave. You still need to cover your half of the bills, remember?”
I stared at him, sure I’d misheard. “I’m sorry, what?”
“We split everything 50/50,” he explained, like I should have known this. “Why should that change just because you’re having a baby?”
I waited for the punchline. Spoiler: there wasn’t one.
“Dan,” I said slowly, “you do realize I’ll be recovering from, oh I don’t know, giving birth to a tiny human, right? And then taking care of said human 24/7?”
He shrugged. “Yeah, but the bills won’t magically disappear. I’m not going to start making double. Better start saving now so you don’t fall behind.”
It felt like I had entered some bizarre alternate reality.
“So, while I’m on unpaid maternity leave, healing from childbirth, and taking care of our newborn, you expect me to contribute exactly the same as when I’m working full-time?”
“Exactly!” he said with a proud grin. “See, you get it!”
I definitely did not get it.
That night, as I tossed and turned, trying to find a comfortable position for my growing belly, I heard Dan shuffling around in the living room. When I returned from one of my many nightly bathroom trips, I found a pink ceramic piggy bank on my nightstand with a Post-it note.
“START SAVING, MOMMY!” it read, in Dan’s messy handwriting.
I couldn’t believe it. “Dan? What’s this?” I called out, eyes wide with disbelief.
He appeared in the doorway, grinning like he had just solved a world crisis. “It’s for your savings, honey. You’re gonna need it.”
And then he laughed. Actually laughed.
At that moment, I made a decision. If Dan wanted to play this game, I’d play along. And I’d win.
Over the next few days, I transformed into a human calculator. Every penny spent, every minute of discomfort—tracked. Dan wanted 50/50? He was about to get a very detailed invoice.
I created a spreadsheet titled “The True Cost of Growing a Human” and got to work. Prenatal vitamins? Check. Maternity clothes? You bet. I even calculated the cost of peeing 17 times a night.
One evening, I asked, “Hey Dan, how much do you think it costs to carry a bowling ball in your shirt all day?”
He looked confused. “Uh, what?”
“Just factoring in the wear and tear on my back. Also, I’m adding the water bill from all my midnight bathroom trips.”
He narrowed his eyes. “What are you doing, Regina?”
“Oh, nothing,” I said sweetly. “Just pregnancy math, darling.”
The list grew longer, including everything from doctor’s appointments to “3 a.m. emotional breakdown over a dog food commercial.” After a week of tracking, I was ready to present my masterpiece.
When Dan came home one night, I was sitting at the kitchen table with the invoice and the piggy bank beside it.
“Hey, what’s all this?” he asked, setting down his briefcase.
I smiled. “Just some light reading. Take a look.”
His eyes widened as he scanned the list.
“Regina… what is this?”
“That, my dear husband, is your half of the pregnancy expenses,” I said cheerfully. “Since we’re doing 50/50.”
His jaw dropped as he reached the total. “This… this can’t be right.”
“Oh, it is,” I assured him. “And don’t worry, I’ll keep updating it once the baby’s here. Diaper changes at 2 a.m.? $20 each. Breastfeeding? $50 a session. And for every stretch mark, I’m adding a beauty tax.”
Dan looked like he was about to faint. “But… but…”
I pointed to the piggy bank. “Better start saving, Dan. You’re gonna need it.”
Finally, he sighed. “I’ve been an idiot, haven’t I?”
“The biggest,” I agreed.
Over the next few weeks, Dan’s attitude did a complete 180. He took on more chores, attended every doctor’s appointment, and even signed us up for a prenatal yoga class. One evening, as he massaged my swollen feet, he cleared his throat.
“Regina, I owe you a huge apology,” he said sheepishly. “I was so focused on the finances that I lost sight of what really matters. You’re growing our child, and instead of supporting you, I added to your stress. I’m sorry.”
My pregnancy hormones kicked in and I felt tears welling up. I squeezed his hand. “Thank you. And from now on, we’re in this together—no more 50/50 nonsense.”
“So… can I tear up the invoice?” he asked hopefully.
I grinned. “On one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“We smash the piggy bank together.”
He laughed for the first time in weeks. “Deal.”
And with great ceremony, we shattered that piggy bank into a thousand pieces. As we swept up the remains, it felt like we’d cleared more than just broken pottery—we’d swept away the ridiculous notion of keeping score in our marriage.
Dan learned an important lesson that day: never underestimate a pregnant woman with Excel skills. We’re a team, and no piggy bank could ever come between that.