Too Close to the Sun

 I knew Sol's last trip as the world's largest lap infant was going to be hard. 

And because Jaime and I are smart only in very niche, completely ungrounded in reality sort of ways, we booked a trip with *8 separate flights. 

It's like we will never be interested in helping ourselves, but it does create memories.

I was already stressed out by the time we got to our first gate in Kansas City. I hadn't brought a stroller because Sol wants to, "WALK!" and goes through security better in the front pack even though, when she's strapped to me, we look like a 12-year-old carrying an 9-year-old. 

It was fine. Jaime would be carrying her through all the airports, anyway, but at that moment, he was in the bathroom, so I was chasing after her while our bags were, worst nightmare, unattended. 

However, the announcement that stopped me in my tracks wasn't the unattended bags one we all have significant anxiety about. It was this...

"Attention. The passenger who left a book at (restaurant name) entitled, White Nationalism, can pick that up at Information."

It was a good reminder that unattended bags were actually not my worst nightmare. I looked around wildly so that everyone knew I was horrified and that is was certainly not my book, but everyone, including Sol, seemed totally unfazed. 

Despite my horror, I do wish that airport employee gets everything she wants in this life and thank her for her service. Because have you ever heard an all-airport announcement about a lost book? Of course you haven't. 

The only thing that happened on the first flight (with maybe a White Nationalist???) is that Sol peed through her diaper and directly into my underwear. I count that as a complete success. 

On the second, two young men boarded behind us, and one of them was the lucky passenger who got to sit next to us. He rolled his eyes and shook his head while his friend laughed at him. I almost said something about how he should just pay for a private jet next time, but I was afraid he was going to be right. 

He wasn't. Sol was PERFECT, and she made a joke out of him. I'm sure he thinks about his behavior once every day and regrets it.  

On the third and longest flight, she pooped four times in eight hours. 

If you haven't done it (Jaime), changing a poop diaper on an airplane is like being sealed in a coffin at the bottom of a pond with a lot of poop and the largest bass you have ever seen who's trying to get back in that pond, and you can't let any poop get on the bass. 

I can't imagine what we looked like by the time we got to Dublin, but we all smelled pretty bad. A week later, we took our last flight to Valencia, and I'm pretty sure Ryan Air had to ban farm animal stickers on all their planes after that. 

While we were in Spain, Jaime severely hurt his back and Sol shoved a flower stamen up her nose. Only one of those problems resolved themselves before our flights home. 

It was the flower. 

Jaime was absolutely miserable. I would have given anything to have taken that pain away from him and put it on myself. 

Because then he would have been the one who had to chase and carry a 35 pound toddler through five airports and four countries over the course of two days. 

* This is actually Air Canada's fault, not ours. Many good things have come from Canada. We could talk about them all day, and go, "I had no idea they/it were/was from Canada!" But Air Canada is not one of them. 

Staying Home

It took a while for me to admit that I wanted to stay home with the baby for a year. Because who the hell did I think I was? A delightful Canadian? I wish and so do you. 

But what I really was was a teacher with no paid leave and a husband who had made much better decisions than I did in our formative years. 

Part of me was embarrassed to tell people. I quit my job way past what was courteous, and it hurt my feelings when people told me that they thought what I was doing was great, but it just wasn't them. 

"It's not me, either!" I usually said. 

Because I like working. 

One of my first jobs was washing dishes in a teahouse when I was twelve years old. The owner  and I were in charge of the back of the house staff consisting of only me. The other owner worked the front of the house wearing late 19th Century dress and would wait on customers only after she descended the staircase and preformed a short monologue as the woman who owned the home when it was built. Her lines and staging never changed. 

The best days were when we had a tour bus of Mormons come through. Because we were running the ship with a skeleton crew, I got to help serve our guests in a cotton shift dress. More than once, I was asked if I was a nice LDS girl, and I would say, "Yes, I probably am," in the hopes of getting a tip because I didn't know what LDS meant. 

And only once did I get a co-worker at the sink. He was one of those larger than lifes, the greatest person I'd ever met in my tiny, rural Missouri town, so I'm sure I literally skipped home to tell my parents. He'd been a former student of theirs. 

"Oh, him!" They said. "He stalked another boy in high school then tried to shoot him in the parking lot of his university. I guess he's out of prison now." 

None of my other jobs were quite as good as that first one, but I've had a very robust and fulfilling work life. 

It was scary to stop something I'd done continuously since before it was legal for me to do so. I was fully reliant on Jaime. The baby fully reliant on me. And she refused to give me any money for doing by far the most difficult work I've ever done. 

If you haven't been a stay at home parent, the closest thing to it might be the personal assistant to an influencer with billionaire parents. But you probably haven't been that either. 

I didn't wear a complete outfit for almost an entire year. During Sol's sleep regressions, neither of us slept for more than two hours at a time. My brain atrophied, and I was constantly worried about saving money. Jaime and I didn't feel married anymore, or maybe we were feeling for the first time what it was really like to be married. 

Sol never, ever wanted to stop gnawing on my nipples. The house was never clean. I felt like I was losing my mind and screwing up my baby. Everything was my fault. 

And unlike sacred Canadians, I had to find a job during this time. The night before I gave an interview lesson in front of high school students, Sol and I were up several times just to make sure my nipples hadn't run off and left her. 

I bombed the lesson. They still hired me. The state of American education is absolutely dire. 

But it wasn't until our unlimited time together had that end date that Sol and I started to relax. We ruled the park and the grocery store. She started crawling, and we began to communicate with each other in a way that finally made some fucking sense to both of us. 

Sol started daycare when she was eleven months old. We both cried every day for the first two weeks. I felt like I was missing part of my body, so I can't imagine how she felt. And even now, when I pick her up after pushing my Nissan Sentra to its absolute limits, I snatch her to me and smell her head. She smells like daycare. 

It's the saddest smell I've ever smelt, and I feel like the solid layer of guilt wrapped around my shoulders will never leave me. 

But I still like working. 

Teaching sucks, but it's important and easier work, in my opinion, than staying home. I also want Sol's world to be really big, much bigger than our house. Her daycare is diverse and full of people who love her because of her personality and not because they have no choice like Jaime and me. 

There are a lot of things I wish I could change for my daughter, but staying home for our first year together will never be one. 

Photo: This is how I want to imagine Sol feels at daycare if everyone 

else were named Sol, too, and were clip art. 

Restoring the Artichoke

I asked Jaime's cousin, Felix, how his mother was, and he said something like, "Oh, you know, she's restoring the artichoke." 

But I didn't know, so we stared at each other for a while. 

He continued...You know, the thing that is suspended from the ceiling of the church with a child singing inside, and as it comes down, it opens. 

He used his hands for reinforcement.  

I was also raised Catholic, so I've seen some weird shit, but this was definitely not one of my repressed memories. 

I assumed it was the extreme jet lag I had after flying to Valencia with a 6-month-old. 

Or maybe it was because Sol had shit from her butt to her neck in the car, and I didn't have a change of clothes for her bringing great shame upon myself in front of Jaime's tías. 

Felix and I eventually found our way out of the conversation, and Jaime's tías found clothes for Sol. 

But I had to admit that I hadn't been all there for awhile. 

Since we'd had the baby, Jaime and I had almost completely lost ourselves. We were in the same house all day long, but we barely saw each other and spoke even less. We didn't even sleep in the same bedroom because I was constantly up with Sol, and Harper, my sister wife, assumed that while I was up, I might as well do something for her, too. 

But that bitch can't fly, so I got my husband back in Spain. 

We decided to go in March instead of summer this year because I'm not working, and that might have been our only chance to see Fallas together until we retire. Lolz. 

Fallas is an insane combination of art, pyrotechnics and tradition. It's indescribable but, at the same time, kind of describes Jaime. 

The first thing he wanted Sol and me to experience was the Mascletà. The Mascletà happens at 2pm every day from March 1st-19th, and you've probably guessed by now that it's when the entire city dangerously packs itself into the plaza in front of the city hall to listen to five minutes of uninterrupted, ear-splitting explosions before dispersing immediately like nothing happened. 

I bought Sol some ear muffs for this psychotic event, and everyone thought that I was the fucking lunatic. 

They all went as children and claim they don't have hearing problems, but I live with a Valencian who cannot hear a word I saw, so I know better. 

The noise of Fallas I will never understand, but bury me in the beauty of the fallas.   

Artists work year-round on gorgeous, themed sculptures (fallas) that are erected all over the city in the days before the festival and burned to the ground at the end of it. It comes from the medieval tradition of carpenters welcoming the warmer, longer days of spring by using their rejected work as kindling. 

I cannot believe Valencia is still standing. 

But because it is, Sol had miraculously embraced sleep and my mother-in-law rules, Jaime and I got to run around the city one night to see as many fallas as we could. We've never forgotten that we love each other, but that night reminded us why we like each other. 

We even held hands, but it was because we were literally running around the city, and he didn't think I was running fast enough. This happens weirdly often. 

Our family welcomed and took care of us like they always do, we ate, our precious friends came to visit, we ate. Jaime ran to the sea every morning. I didn't, and we ate. Sol met Jaime's grandfather for the first time and said goodbye to him for the last time. We ate. 

And this artichoke felt fully restored. 

Top to bottom: The restored artichoke in all its glory, visiting Jaime's aunt's studio to see the artichoke in progress and the brilliant artist herself, Mariá José Ortega Rodrigo, with Sol and panels of the artichoke. I get it now. 

 

Floating

 I'm worried that I'm an anxious person. 

So when my sister-in-law "and brother" gifted me a float in a sensory deprivation tank for Christmas, I knew this was my chance to prove that I could fucking relax. 

I left Jaime and Sol, for the first time, with two bottles of pumped milk, his parents and a tense vibe.

Marlon gave me a quick run down before I entered the tank. He said to take a 5 minute shower under cool water first. 

I'm going to stop you right there, Marlon. 

It is impossible to take a shower in under 5 minutes. You need at least 5 minutes at the top to stand motionless and unsuccessfully try to talk yourself into shaving your legs. And cool water? Go fuck yourself, Marlon. 

He explained that I would know when to enter the tank because the lights and music would start fading. He also stressed that I needed to get in there before the lights went completely out and I lost my orientation. 

He opened the door to the tank to show me where I'd be spending the next 90 minutes. The heavily salted water looked inviting but also fathomless. I asked how deep it was, and his condescending smile told me he'd been asked that hundreds of times. 

What happens if I fall asleep? He'd also been asked this hundreds, maybe thousands, of times. 

When you're done, take another 5 minute shower in warm water then meet me at the front desk. 

Right, Marlon. 

As soon as I noticed a change in the lights, I stepped into the pool and closed the door behind me immediately convinced it had sealed shut and that no one could hear if I screamed. 

Of course I couldn't drink the water, and I recently learned it isn't running out of oxygen in confined spaces that kills people. It's their own exhaled carbon dioxide poisoning them. Which sounds like the same fucking thing. 

The lights went completely out, and my mind went directly to Harrison Okene. 

A week before floating, I'd listened to a podcast about a shipwrecked man who'd survived for 3 days on the floor of the Atlantic Ocean inside a 4 x 4 foot air pocket. Divers sent to recover bodies in the completely dark, shark-infested water noticed him when he reached out and lightly grazed one of their backs. 

I was Harrison now. 

Every time my toe skimmed the side of the tank or a piece of my hair touched my shoulder, I screamed inside of my body and braced for the great white that lived in 10 inches of water inside a yoga studio in Waldo. This would be my coffin. 

I forced myself to think of lighter things like the climate crisis or what I would wear to receive a Nobel Peace Prize. I design dresses or pant suits for that occasion often, but not once have I actually thought about what I'd do to win one. I didn't then either. 

I thought about Sol but not as much as I thought I would. She wasn't scary enough. 

I considered leaving the tank early, but I couldn't open my eyes. If I opened my eyes, it would be just as dark as it was with my eyes closed, and that terrified me. 

I also didn't want to waste my sister-in-law's money. She would definitely have wanted me to stay in my mind prison for the full 90 minutes.  

At least the children on the Thai soccer team had some light while they were trapped in the cave. I needed someone to sedate me, strap me to their body, carry me out of there and release me into my parents' loving arms. 

But I think they were all taken away in ambulances. I probably didn't need an ambulance. 

The moment I perceived the lights and music fading in, I sat straight up, and my engorged tumescent boobs dropped like anvils. 

I was alive. 

I met Marlon at the front desk, and he asked how it was. I told him that I'd never felt so relaxed in my life and that I would like to purchase a shorter session in the tank for my husband. 

Stockholm syndrome can come for anyone at any time. 

"I'm not fucking doing that," Jaime said when I gave him his appointment reminder card. 

Right. I called and got our money back. 

This is not me at a yoga studio. This is Harrison Okene ten stories under water (please read about him). I hope he was able to get his money back, too. 

Sol y Daddy

Fatherhood has been deeply inspirational for Jaime. 

He's often inspired to leave the house to go to the grocery store. It has inspired him to start making wine in the basement and going to the community center to swim again. It has even ignited a never before seen love for menial, time consuming tasks around the house that are too dangerous for Sol and me to be near. 

I guess one could call it a fucking renaissance. 

I'd be lying if I claimed I hadn't seen this time of self-discovery coming. Jaime never wanted to be a father, and even though I never forced him to become one, I did take advantage of his growing old and giving up the fight. 

Parenthood is hard for everyone, I assume, especially if you never imagined you'd be one. 

It isn't easy on a relationship either. 

Before Sol (BS), we were pretty good at having conversations. We made eye contact, tried very hard to listen no matter how stupid the other person's point was and peppered the discussion with dramatic but appropriate gestures and responses. It was very well scripted. 

We don't even pretend to do that anymore. 

Now, we have two entirely different conversations with ourselves but at each other. It's very liberating and unhealthy. 

I guess I'm jealous that he still has meaningful contact with the outside world, and because I don't, the information I'm bringing to the table is exclusively about Sol who is, understandably, a very boring person. 

My phone is my only tether to Earth right now, but I can't trust it. It targets me with brilliant advertisements that I could ignore only while I had an income. 

I just call everything a Christmas present and give it to him immediately after it's delivered with a manic, anticipatory smile while he wonders how much it cost. 

One that really got me was a book you can personalize for dads. The hook was that every man in the ad cried so hard he couldn't manage to read it to his child, and I fucking needed it. It took me forever to decide what color his shirt should be and lots of thinking about Sol's true essence to guess how she will wear her hair in the future. 

I gave Sol the credit when it finally arrived to keep the heat off of me. 

"Sol got you a Christmas present, Daddy." 

It was the perfect setup. 

He opened the package and said flatly, "It's a book. Oh, that's weird that there's a character named Sol." 

I explained that I didn't just find a book in Spanish with two animations that looked exactly like him and Sol with a character named Sol. I think he understood what I was saying, but I'm still not sure. 

He has read it to her once, and everyone's eyes were dry as deserts. 

But that's who Sol's daddy is.  

He'll never remember what her favorite characters or friends' names are, but he will compose elaborate operas in nearly Italian, morning jingles in Valencian and silly rhymes in English on the fly while dancing her to sleep. 

He will never be interested in her school events or extracurricular activities, but he will make sure she sees the ocean from on top of a surf board while he paddles for hours and long after she asks to go back to shore. 

And he will certainly never get emotional while reading her a book or even when she graduates, but she will see how upset he is when an animal is mistreated or hurt and learn that it's the most vulnerable around us who need our kindness and respect the most. 

Sol might not always understand her dad, but I think she will end up understanding him more than anyone else ever has. And they are both so lucky for it.  

What a waste of money.

Giving Sol to the Light

TW: pain, childbirth, medical stuff 

Disclaimer: Never before and certainly not now have I ever thought someone else who had a C-section was a failure. They're my newest heroes.

Me: I just feel like I failed at giving birth, and that was the first thing I was supposed to do for her. 

Jaime: Mmm hmm...I think we should buy iodine tablets in case there's a nuclear holocaust. 

It's not that he doesn't care. It's that he doesn't care AND he's tired of hearing about it. We're both alive and healthy, and that's all he does care about. Must be nice, Pollyanna. 

In Spain, they use the expression "give to the light" for the moment someone is born. I love it, and it was my mantra for Sol's birth. What could be easier and more beautiful than illuminating our shitty world for our child for the first time? 

And that's all the thought I gave to it. At least I didn't think I had a birth plan until absolutely nothing went according to it. 

An induction was scheduled for her due date, and even though I had agreed to it, I hoped she'd come on her own before that. I wanted the first pangs of labor to be between just my baby and me before shaking Jaime awake. I also thought Sol should choose her birthday. 

Instead, we called the hospital the morning of our induction and confirmed our time before an almost silent drive there knowing it would be the last with just the two of us for awhile. I hadn't had the slightest indication of labor despite our best efforts. 

The early hours were fun. Our induction was pushed back because another woman needed an emergency C-section. It sounded like a rough one, but we barely paid attention. We were too excited and eating the candy we'd brought for the nurses. 

I couldn't feel the contractions when the anesthesiologist came to administer my epidural. My nurse said it was because I was tough, but I truly wouldn't have known when I was contracting if I couldn't see it on the monitor. I thought I'd beaten the system and would be the first person on Earth to give birth completely painlessly.  

LOLzzzzz. And if Samuel L. Jackson had been in the room at that moment, he would have asked me if I thought I was a smart mother fucker. 

It was shortly after the OB broke my water, another thing I didn't want, that I lost all track of time and space. 

With each contraction, I curled into Jaime begging him to press his full weight into my back. It felt like someone was stabbing me repeatedly with the length of whatever standard size really long knives come in. Nothing helped and eventually my contractions overlapped giving me no break in between. 

My nurse, knowing the most violent pain was in my back, began to suspect that Sol was in the wrong position facing up instead of towards my tailbone. 

In retrospect it's really cute that Sol was "sunny side up," but at the time, it felt fucking evil. 

She and Jaime maneuvered me onto all fours and other positions to turn her, but it didn't work, and I was dilating quickly. 

I told the nurse I felt ready to poop like she'd told me to watch out for, but it really felt like my body was about to turn inside out and come through my butt. It was time to push, and it oddly felt good to be able to do something to counter the poltergeist in my lower half. I was so close to feeling the weight of our baby on my chest, I thought I could push out a VW bus if I had to. 

My nurse was an incredible pushing coach, and she invited Jaime down to see the big show. Every time I pushed, he could see Sol's head bulge through my cervix then get sucked back into my body as soon as I stopped. He watched this scene on repeat for hours.

The first time my OB brought up a C-section coincided with the end of my nurse's shift. Jaime says he knew it was over then, but I could not accept that outcome. I still can't. 

I pushed with the new nurse whom I hated only because she smelled like my own failure. Eventually, my doctor came back and said I could push for another 6 hours and have a C-section, or I could have a C-section now. 

Jaime hugged me while I cried, and I asked if he could hold her skin to skin immediately because I wouldn't be able to hold her for awhile. 

After some discussion about how to dress Jaime, they took him away, and the anesthesiologist came in to "turn up my epidural" for the C-section. That's when the panic started because this sadist thought the epidural she had gone to school for a decade to learn how to administer had worked. 

And guess who else thought it had worked? My doctor and the entire surgical staff as they prepped me. This included shoving another catheter up my urethra with no finesse and packing my vagina with gauze, which hurt even more. When I cried out in pain, my doctor said, "Why are you complaining, we've done much worse to you today?"

Hello anger my old friend. It was the first time I could think clearly in hours.

I turned to the anesthesiologist and said, "If you cut me open right now, I will be able to feel everything." 

She certainly didn't believe me, but she did have an object that felt like a jack with sharper points. I could tell her everywhere she was poking me behind the sheet. Her face dropped. 

Everything suddenly stopped. 

My doctor explained that they were going to remove my epidural and replace it with something called a spinal. If that didn't work, they'd have to put me completely under, and Jaime wouldn't be allowed in the room. She left to tell him the epidural had failed to which he probably responded, "no shit."

I was so afraid our baby would be born into a blindingly bright room full of strangers and without her parents. 

But the spinal worked, and Sol Perales-Green was given to the light twice because she fell back in the first time. 

Jaime's job was to announce the sex of the baby, but he was so overwhelmed, he forgot. He did yell out that she had red hair, which absolutely was not true. It was as black as his. She looks exactly like him just like I'd hoped. 

In between Sol's cries, I could hear the surgical team get excited about her weight and the size of the placenta. 

I really wanted to see this giant placenta that had kept my baby alive for months, but I couldn't speak. Euphoria washed over me as I tried to track her movements in the room. She couldn't walk, but she was moving so quickly. I was cemented to a table. 

If I craned my head back, I could see Jaime and Sol chest to chest. I couldn't hear what he was saying to her, but I like that it will be their secret forever. It was torture not to be able to hold her. 

I watched them as long as I could, but my neck started to hurt, and I shifted my focus back onto myself. I could hear a staple gun then that same anesthesiologist squirted a mystery liquid directly into my eye. She wiped it away and apologized profusely. I hope I fucking haunt her dreams. 

Watching my blood pressure tank twice was Jaime's trauma, and he imagined life as a single father while clutching Sol as they brought me back around. I don't think anyone said anything to reassure him. It probably happens all the time. 

In the recovery room, they put my daughter on my chest, and she hasn't moved from that spot in 2 months. 

We don't know her very well yet, but we do know she really hates it when the sun gets in her eyes. 

Jaime was in charge of sending photos of the baby to our family and friends. This one was taken after my father asked if he could send some without my boobs in them so he could show people. 

I remember being worried that people could tell I'd had a C-section from this photo, angry I couldn't lift my kid out of her bassinet or change her diaper and in so much pain.

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.