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.
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