Snoogle Up ...

Everyone suffers from one form of fear or another. Some are afraid of bears. Others are afraid of ghosts. I, myself, am terrified of this photo of David Hasselhoff (click here). But even more terrifying than any of those is the idea of being replaced.

Earlier this week, I was replaced.

After many weeks of Brittany complaining about discomfort and pain in some imaginary body part she calls her “sciatic” nerve, I finally cracked and bought her a Snoogle. If you’re unfamiliar with this product, no need to worry—your wife still loves you. If you do know what it is, you’re welcome to join my newly created support group called Fathers Against The Advancement of SnoogleS, or F.A.T.A.S.S. for short.

We meet on Tuesdays.

The Snoogle is a giant pillow, but not just any ordinary giant pillow. It’s the Rolls Royce of bedroom attire. Designed especially for (crazy) pregnant women, the Snoogle is nearly 8 feet in length with curves at both ends. It conforms around the body, offering head, neck, back and leg support. If that’s not enough, it’s softer on your skin than a roll of Charmin toilet paper.

While I don’t have the precise numbers in front of me, I think it’s safe to assume that the Snoogle is the number one cause of divorce in this country. Not that long ago, Brittany used to dote on me. A kiss here, a hug there. We’d hold hands for no real reason and spend hours laying in bed, embracing each other. Now, I’m lucky if she burps in my general direction.

Her love of this pillow is kind of creepy, if you ask me. She treats “Rico”—that’s right, she named it—like he’s part of the family. She bought him a holiday sweater, wrote him a poem and, before she left for work yesterday morning, I could swear she gave him a kiss goodbye. To make matters worse, my side of the bed has been reduced to about a quarter of an inch.

I’m generally not an insecure person, but when your wife has you run out because “Rico” had a hankering for Taco Bell, you begin to feel a little undervalued. It’s understandable that she prefers not to have alcohol around the house since she can’t drink. I can also accept that the hair on her legs is currently long enough to braid. But I draw the line at getting dinner for pillow boyfriends.

If there’s one saving grace to having this monstrosity in the bed, it’s this: Brittany went from tossing and turning and groaning and whining throughout the night to sleeping soundly without a peep. It was great for her because she no longer lay in pain. It was great for me because I didn’t have to smother her with a pillow.

In the end, I guess it’s a small price to pay for the woman I love. I don’t mind cutting her some slack; after all, she is carrying my baby. If a Snoogle makes her happy, then it makes me happy too. Plus, I figure I can parlay this into getting something I desperately want, even if she’s been against it since day one.

Hasselhoff Klems … has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?