I thought pregnancy would bring us closer—me and Doug. That we’d hold hands through it all, navigate the swollen ankles and mood swings like a team. But at seven months pregnant, waddling like a penguin with a bowling ball strapped to my belly, I found myself alone in ways I hadn’t expected. And the worst part? My husband had the audacity to mansplain my own pregnancy to me.

We’ve been married four years. Doug’s 33, works in tech. I’m 30 and work in HR. Before the baby, we split chores, tag-teamed dinners, celebrated promotions with cheap champagne on the couch. It was solid. Or so I thought.

Then pregnancy entered the chat—and Doug transformed.

One night, while my lower back screamed and my ankles looked like overinflated balloons, I made meatballs and roasted potatoes for dinner. I was beyond exhausted. I mean barely-functioning, blurry-eyed, “Is this real life?” tired.

So I finally brought it up.

“Babe,” I said carefully, “I’ve been thinking of starting maternity leave early. The doctor said—”

Doug interrupted. Interrupted!

“You’re being dramatic,” he scoffed, not even pausing to cut his spaghetti. “My mom worked up until the day she gave birth to me.”

I blinked.

He kept going. “You’re just lazy. Honestly, I think you just don’t want to work anymore. It’s not like you’re the first woman to be pregnant. People do it all the time. Don’t expect me to suddenly support everything.”

I sat there, fork frozen mid-air, the meatball on my plate rapidly cooling like my affection for him.

But instead of flipping the table and storming out, I smiled. “You’re right. I’ll push through.”

That smile? It was fake. Because the plan I came up with next? That was very real.

I didn’t take leave. I didn’t slow down. I ramped up.

The next morning, I was up at 6 a.m., cleaning the kitchen, prepping his lunch, hand-scrubbing the bathroom tiles—waddling like an Olympic athlete doing it all. I worked full days, then came home and cooked elaborate meals. Chicken piccata. Lemon risotto. Lasagna that nearly took me down.

“Wow,” Doug said one night, wiping sauce from his lips. “Told you it was in your head. You just needed to push through.”

Smile. Nod. Sip water.

But the wheels were turning. Oh, they were spinning hard.

Enter Shannon. My doula, postpartum coach, and newly minted partner in a very special kind of revenge. Shannon runs a parenting bootcamp for dads. And she lives for this stuff.

“You in?” I asked her.

Shannon grinned. “Say less.”

Then I called Maddie, my college friend. Her three-month-old twins are adorable chaos gremlins. I just said one thing: “I need a favor.”

“Girl,” she laughed, “this is what I was born for.”

So Friday arrived. I told Doug I had a prenatal appointment and that he needed to be home for pest control and the water guys.

“Window’s 9 to 3,” I told him casually.

“Guess I’ll babysit the dishwasher,” he muttered, still smug.

At 9:15 a.m., the doorbell rang.

Doug, in pajama pants, answered to find Shannon standing there with a clipboard and a doll baby.

“Hi!” she chirped. “I’m here for your Fatherhood Simulation Day!”

Doug was still processing that sentence when Maddie arrived, juggling two wailing babies, diaper bags, and one bottle already leaking.

From the moment the door shut behind her, Doug entered baby bootcamp hell.

Seven hours later, I walked into chaos. A baby was screaming. Doug sat like a war veteran, burp cloth on his shoulder, hair sticking to his forehead. Shannon sipped tea on the rug like the goddess of calm.

Doug looked up at me with the expression of a man who had stared into the abyss—and been spit back out.

“I didn’t eat. I didn’t sit. They both pooped. One exploded on me. They took turns crying. I think one is teething. Or possessed.”

“Huh,” I said sweetly, stepping over a pacifier. “Weird. No pregnancy. Plus help. Just eight hours. I’ve been doing this on top of working.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Collapsed back onto the couch.

But I wasn’t finished.

That night, I gave him a small box. Inside? A scrapbook.

Photos of my swollen feet. Screenshots of texts to his mom, asking for advice. Grocery receipts. Notes I’d left on the fridge to wish him luck before big meetings.

At the end, a sticky note: “You think I’m lazy? I hope today showed you just how wrong you are.”

He stared at it. Then at me. Eyes red.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t get it. I do now.”

And just like that, I saw a flicker of the man I married.

The next morning, he made pancakes. Real ones. Fluffy, golden, with whipped cream and strawberries.

Then he did something I didn’t expect. He called his mom.

“Hey,” he said. “I used to brag that you worked until the day I was born. I even used it against Cindy. But… I’m sorry. That must’ve been so hard.”

There was a pause on the other end. Then: “Oh honey… that’s not true. I left work four months in. Your dad and I agreed it was time to rest. I just didn’t want you to think I was weak.”

Doug blinked.

I sipped my tea. Slowly.

“Looks like you believed the wrong version of strength,” I murmured.

Since then? He’s changed. He rubs my back without being asked. Does the dishes. Books his own doctor visits. And at night, he tucks me in with the gentlest kiss on my forehead.

“Thank you for not giving up on me,” he whispered last night.

I didn’t say anything.

But I smiled.

Because sometimes the best way to teach someone what strength looks like… is to let them live in your shoes—poop, puke, and all.