We are lucky to have a lot of people in our lives who know what we’ve been through this last year, and make a sincere effort to check in. Like any major life change, pregnancy is the kind of thing where a lot of people ask you the same questions and you give the same answers about a zillion times. I’m not complaining; I’m just saying that I’ve got my responses down. For example:

 

Q: How is this pregnancy going? (subtext: in comparison to that with Jacob or Ethan)

 

A: Apart from the first twelve weeks of utter terror, it’s a lot like Jacob’s. Hooray!

 

So much like Jacob’s, in fact, that I have been keeping a mental list of what a healthy pregnancy looks like for me, considering it can be very different from woman to woman.

 

First trimester: Nauseous, but not sick; tired; not interested in fruits and vegetables; very interested in carbs.

 

Second trimester: The bump begins; energy comes back; it’s fun to eat; mind reels on organizational tasks to complete before I can’t move anymore.

 

Third trimester: Can’t move anymore; hungry, but I feel like I’ve eaten everything there is to eat, and thus bored with food; best when I end the day with my feet literally up.

 

In the midst of these generalities, there is also one specific moment that has repeated itself: that moment, sometime in month six, when I realize I can’t reach my feet.

 

With Jacob, it was summertime, and I wrote about why painting one’s toenails while pregnant should qualify as an Olympic sport.

 

This time, it’s fall, and I’m more interested in boots. In fact, I have a pair of loose-around-the-feet cowboy boots that I just knew would be perfect for my preggo footsies.

 

A few weeks ago, John and I went out for our anniversary. I was so excited—1) for a date with fun grandparent babysitters at home (thanks, Mom and Dad!), and 2) to wear my boots!

 

I got dressed, convinced myself my hair wasn’t too poufy, and took my boots from their pedestal in the closet.

 

Okay, so it’s not a pedestal. It’s a collapsed pack ‘n’ play. We live in Brooklyn; we’re creative with our space.

 

Anyway, I went to put the boots on and . . . nothing. I couldn’t get my foot in. Plus, leaning over to try to tug them on left me out of breath. I asked John to help, but even then, no luck. I was determined not to have the night ruined before it started, so I slipped into my flip flops, took an anniversary photo, and we were off.

About a week and half later, I decided I would not be defeated. The weather is unpredictable these days, but I can’t count on wearing flip flops through January. I made a second attempt, this time standing up to enlist the aid of gravity and our increasingly large baby-in-utero. And you know what? Success.

 

It wasn’t until half an hour later that I realized I might have gotten them on, but I hadn’t attempted to take them off. Fortunately, that worked out as well.

 

Moral of the story: After a tough match, Pregnant Woman: 1; Boots: 0.