From Emma in the Third Trimester

The third trimester is a real kick in the nuts. 

Like it really felt like someone had kicked me in the nuts. 

But the best part about the third trimester was that Jaime noticed I was pregnant and started to get excited. 

Okay, the real best part was joining an early morning water aerobics class in which I was the youngest student by at least 30 years though I fell towards the bottom if ranked by most able-bodied. At that point in my pregnancy, I couldn't get comfortable unless I was in water and could not care less that I looked like the midway mark of Ursula trying to change herself into Ariel.  

We decided to book a last-minute trip to Spain for Jaime to once again remind him of the incredible things he was giving up to work all the time, worry about mass shootings and obesity and be a father in Kansas. 

Cautious about going into early labor, Harper (completely useless in an emergency situation) and I stayed with my parents while he was gone knowing I'd have to sacrifice some getting wet to the oldies time. 

Luckily, I had one prenatal visit scheduled during the week and drove back home the evening before really looking forward to a night alone and water aerobics in the morning. 

All I wanted for dinner that night was an entire watermelon, a block of cheese and some crackers, and my husband and father, who both weirdly don't care for watermelon, couldn't stop me. 

I guess a lot of other people wanted watermelon that day, too, because I found myself standing next to a gigantic box at Aldi with three sad melons left at the bottom. My independence flew right out the automatic doors, and I really wished my husband or father or even my entirely useless dog were with me to help hoist one of these babies out. 

I'm not sure how many people watched me lower my much larger than a watermelon torso between my knees and then slowly lean into the side of the box bending it down just enough to get my finger tips around a fruit, but it was at least five. 

When I got home, I texted my neighbors to say they were first on call if I went into labor that night, and they suggested I come sleep at their house.

I still really wanted a night to myself, but for some reason my house was really hot, and it took me the time it takes to eat 1/3 of a watermelon to waddle two houses down. 

Rachel and Carla are fancy, so they keep their house very cool and have Hulu. I watched the first episode of The Handmaid's Tale in their guest room with a fan blowing directly on me. It was perfect. In the morning, I left the house before they woke up because I has some very important business with a pool. 

I thought the rest of the pregnancy would be smooth sailing once Jaime got home, but that's where the trouble began. 

Jaime tested positive a couple of days before I did, so we quarantined from one another as best we could. He didn't want Harper in harm's way, so I was stuck with her in the guest room wiping both her and myself down with washcloths soaked in ice water because our 26-year-old air conditioner decided it was fucking done during the hottest week of 2022. 

The feverish European cloistered in the bedroom had always thought of air conditioning as a luxury. He hadn't grown up with it and insisted we didn't need to get it fixed though a) his wife was nine months pregnant b) he and the mattress he was on were soaked through with sweat and c) he was about to bring an infant home to this ninth circle of hell. 

By the time my Covid test was positive, he'd finally admitted in a desperate WhatsApp message to his parents, "Esta claro. En el Medio Oeste de los Estados Unidos el aire acondicionado es esencial." 

It is and always will be my greatest victory in this marriage. 

I lost another precious 10 days in the pool, but I did gain watching four seasons of The Handmaid's Tale, which is hands down the worst series to binge when you're pregnant.  

Emboldened by following the original CDC guidelines and a negative test, I convinced my neighbor Carla (remember her?), whose shoulder hurts, to accompany me on my epic comeback tour of the locker room and the pool but certainly not the gym. 

But we were promptly informed the pump was broken. The pool was drained. They didn't know when it would be fixed. Supply chain stuff. But I could still use the hot tub and sauna to blanch my baby. 

I, handmaid's name Ofjaime, had two weeks left to carry this child fathered by a 6'3'' pure Wagyu beefcake. 

If there had been a table in front of me instead of a bolted down desk, I would have flipped it. 

Jaime told me last night that octopuses kill themselves after they give birth.

From Emma in the Second Trimester

The nausea really let up approaching the second trimester, so I assumed the day I hit 14 weeks I'd feel like a new woman. 

Turns out the new me did stop feeling nauseous and went straight to surprise puking while peeing her pants. 

Luckily, that didn't last long, but what will stay with me forever is the joy of being pregnant in front of a teenage audience. 

I wanted to hide my pregnancy for as long as possible at school, but my body said, "Bitch, you thought." I confirmed it to the first kid who was brave enough to ask me within the fourteenth week. It spread like wildfire, but they had all "been knowing" and had taken bets.

I'd arranged a field trip to see an Auschwitz exhibit earlier. However, we had a snow day on our original date, and by the time I could reschedule it, everyone knew. That wouldn't have been a big deal except that we, like every school, are short-staffed, so I had to invite Jaime to be a chaperone. 

Kids are awkward around Jaime for two to three reasons: they think he's cool and/or an absolute smoke show, but also, you can feel his absolute disdain for them radiating from his whole body. 

This time, unfortunately, they had the added factor of knowing that he had impregnated their teacher, and it was too much for them to handle. Everyone wanted to be in his group while simultaneously not daring to go near him. 

And that's how we almost left a kid behind. 

But the highlight of the second trimester wasn't hanging out with teenagers. It was the trip we booked to Miami before we knew how big I'd get and how quickly I'd get there.  

Jaime had a conference in Bonita Springs at the same time I had spring break, so we decided to make a babymoon in Miami out of it even though anywhere in Florida would have been my very last choice on Earth. 

The conference days weren't so bad. All I felt pressured to do was waddle down to the pool and back to our room several times a day and even got some work done. My best friend David Marquez was also at the conference, and the reason why David Marquez is my best friend is because he made Jaime bend over to get my ball out of all the holes at a mini-course that featured real caimans you could feed with lil fishing poles.

But for all the thousands of Marquezes in Miami, David was not one of them, and I was stuck with an over-zealous Valencian on a beach vacation with no buffer and heavily pregnant when the conference was over. 

Jaime started each day with a miles long run on Miami Beach while I sat and obsessively adjusted the umbrella each time the sun moved an inch then I'd continue to sit while he complained there were no waves as he looked for surfboard rentals nearby. In the humid heat of the afternoons, we'd take long walks on urine drenched cement sidewalks window shopping the sex stores and CBD distributors until we found something to eat. 

My favorite thing about Miami is assuming people speak Spanish because they always do except for the Australian lady at the table next to ours who asked Jaime if he recommended the "pay-el-la." 

We'd really wanted to try a Cuban restaurant, which is difficult for vegetarians, so we caved and got a seafood Cuban-style paella that turned Jaime into Gordon Ramsey's more critical and handsome brother. 

He says I say paella wrong, but the way she said it even made my skin crawl. He slowly turned to look at her, and I swear to god, I thought he was going to flip the table. 

Our last night in Miami, we had tickets to see a singer from Barcelona who'd sold out the house. 

We got there on time, which of course meant we had to wait another three hours for the hall to fill and the show to start. Sometimes stereotypes exist for a reason. 

While waiting, the fire alarm went off with a recording that said repeatedly, "The building is on fire, evacuate now." 

No one else seemed concerned, but we made our way towards an exit. Near the door, I asked a security guard if we really needed to leave. He responded, "Well that depends, are you due today?" 

We went back to our seats. 

A Valencian in a Valencian shirt with an incredible seafood pay ella. 

From Emma in the First Trimester

I trudged through 9" of snow carefully avoiding any ice patches a half block or more behind Jaime and Harper who was cradled in his arms as he jogged home. The snow kept getting packed in her paws, and she informed him that his hot breath through his cupped hands wasn't cutting it anymore. 

This is a really indicative snapshot of my first trimester. Me cautiously and hesitantly navigating my way through a new and scary territory while Jaime shouts from across the room, "But what does Harper need right now?" 

Week 6: the first day the nausea was bad was also the day of parent-teacher conferences. I was stuck at school for 12 hours and knew I wasn't going to make it without Cheez-its. A lot of Cheez-its. I called Jaime and asked if he would bring me some as soon as his schedule allowed. It took him awhile to realize I was serious, but even then, he asked, "Can't it wait until after work?" Fair question. 

Um, NO, mother fucker, it cannot. 

He brought three family size boxes of extra toasty within the hour while I tracked him on our shared app. 

Scrolling through YouTube at 8 weeks, I found the Garbage and Screaming Females' cover of Patti's Smith's Because the Night. I listened and watched with the appropriate amount of reverence until Marissa Paternoster ripped into a face-melting guitar solo at the end. I started sobbing. 

A few hours later, I cried because I was so grateful that we can afford electric toothbrushes. 

Approaching our 12 week checkup, we got into a deadlocked argument about whether we wanted to learn the baby's sex during our genetic screening or wait until they were born. I was mistaken in thinking we were on the same page with waiting until birth, but Jaime was annoyed that some nameless, faceless lab tech would know and we wouldn't. 

I couldn't see a path to compromise, so I offered to continue to be the only person who cleaned the bathroom if we waited. 

He agreed without hesitation, and I still can't tell if he's the dumbest genius or the smartest dumb ass on the planet. I really admire him. 

I've worn it for years, but never has the George Costanza sweatshirt 

shown as brightly as it did during pregnancy.