He grins at me as I step out of the bedroom. The look in his eyes is one of pride and happiness as he stares at me in my new outfit -- one of many new outfits, since my growing belly has made all my other clothes useless. And as we step outside our house, he grabs my hand and kisses it, that smile permanently afixed on his face. And as I step past him, I find myself thinking, "Yep, I'm his prize donkey."
No matter where we go, as people oohh and aahh over me, he is always close by, beaming. He accepts his secondary role without complaints, standing off to the side while others swarm me to congratulate me, ask me questions, and touch me. It all makes me feel special and amused, but somewhat sad, too. The prize donkey is being reviewed and appraised by the masses.
I tell him when we're alone that I'm annoyed by this, that I want us BOTH to be congratulated and fawned over, because he is just as much a part of this as I am. And although he admits that he sometimes feels left out, he's quick to point out that I'm the one who looks beautiful -- smiling and glowing, with an adorable belly -- so it's only natural that I be the center of attention. And I realize that he enjoys this, enjoys the way others look at his prize donkey, the appreciation and approval -- and in some cases, lust -- he sees in their eyes. He enjoys being envied for having such a prized little donkey.
But this donkey, I have to say, feels like nothing more than a dumpy, frumpy, plain old donkey. A donkey that's anything but prize-winning, a little stressed by the pressure to "perform" on command.