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Though I was angry, I took a deep breath and tried again. “I’m just saying, maybe you could do the dishes or help put together the crib? It’s not exactly rocket science.”
Mark finally glanced up and narrowed his eyes. “You are such a drama queen… Lily enjoys taking care of me, just like she will enjoy taking care of our kid. Don’t bring your progressive stuff into my house. My wife simply does what she is supposed to.”
I felt my blood boil and had to fight the urge to throw my coffee in his smug face. But then, an idea began to form in my mind, a plan so ridiculous, so outlandish, that it just might work…
I plastered a fake smile on my face, and said, “You know what, Mark? You’re right. Lily does enjoy taking care of you. So much so that I bet you couldn’t last a day doing everything she does.”
A smirk spread across Mark’s face. “Oh really? And what happens if I prove you wrong?”
“Then I’ll be your personal maid for the rest of my life,” I replied, smiling widely. “But if you lose, you have to step up and be the husband Lily deserves. Deal?”
Laughing, Mark extended his hand. “Deal.”
He little knew that I had a secret weapon waiting in the wings: a watermelon, a roll of plastic wrap, and a lot of determination.
With the terms of our bet set, I made a quick trip to the grocery store, almost skipping with mischievous glee.
I came back home with the biggest, roundest watermelon I could find. I told my sister all about my plan and enlisted her help in preparing Mark’s “pregnancy simulator.”
When Mark returned home from work, I presented the watermelon, told him the gist, and gave him a handwritten list of Lily’s daily tasks: laundry, dishes, vacuuming, mopping, grocery shopping, meal prep, nursery painting… the works.
You see, we cut the watermelon in half, scooped out the juicy insides (saving them for later, of course), and then carefully wrapped each half in plastic wrap, transforming them into cumbersome belly-like orbs. Two in case, we needed to switch them later.
“Are you sure about this?” Lily asked, slightly worried but also amused.
“Absolutely,” I replied, giving the watermelon some finishing touches. “It’s time he got a taste of his own medicine.”
Mark just chuckled. “This is gonna be a piece of cake,” he declared, puffing out his chest.
Lily and I settled onto the couch with a bowl of popcorn strategically placed between us. The show was about to begin.
And what a show it was!
Mark initially strutted around like he owned the place, the watermelon half bouncing on his belly with each step. But it wasn’t long before the reality of the situation set in.
He bent over in order to pick up a stray sock, and the watermelon swung forward, nearly knocking him off balance.
He made an effort to vacuum, but the extra weight made him waddle like a penguin. When he tried to load the washing machine, the watermelon kept bumping against the door, preventing it from closing.
Lily and I couldn’t contain our laughter.
“Need some help?” I called out sweetly, making Lily chuckle.
Mark gritted his teeth and muttered something about “women’s work” being easier than it looked.
However, by lunchtime, he was sweating like a pig. The watermelon half had left a sticky residue on his shirt, and he was moving at a snail’s pace.
It was particularly entertaining to see him trying to paint the nursery . He stood dangerously on a stepladder and could barely balance his weight.
The weight of the watermelon half, which wasn’t as bad as a real pregnancy belly, finally took its toll on my brother-in-law.
At one point, Mark was even crawling on his hands and knees to scrub the bathroom floor, forgetting his early cockiness.
Lily and I knew this was more than just a silly bet; it was a chance for Mark to finally understand the sacrifices Lily made every day.
And judging by the pained expression on his face, the lesson was starting to sink in.
Finally, when the sun began to set, Mark threw in the towel, metaphorically and literally. He collapsed onto the couch, threw the rag onto the coffee table, and started removing his watermelon half.
continued on next page
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