Yep. I’m THAT pregnant lady.

Beatrice and I were snuggling on the couch for an unprecedented free moment this morning when the tears came rolling down my cheeks. Fat, round, alligator tears. Beatrice shifted her purring weight on my chest and turned to look at me through squinted, smiling eyes. I kissed her nose and cried against her fur.

Taking a deep breath, I walked into our bedroom, mentally planning my wardrobe for the day, sure that I had finally gotten the random tears under control. Robert told me good morning and gave me a kiss. I felt a prickling just at the tip of my nose and edges of my eyes. I blinked hard and turned to the dresser.

Get it together, lady, I chastised myself. Now, what’s good for today? Jeggings or slacks? Jeggings or slacks?

As I pulled the jeggings out of the drawer, I could hear Robert’s voice. He was telling me something to do with a news story he had read this morning during breakfast. I couldn’t focus on his words. Turning around to face him, I gave him a half-hearted “hm” of acknowledgement…and then met his eyes.

“Oh yeah,” I said, lips trembling. “I’m apparently doing this today.”

Cue the hot, fat tears.

“Oh, no! Why?” His voice was soothing as he pulled me against his chest. I shook my head, rubbing my face on his shirt.

“I don’t know. I guess it’s what I’m doing today,” I said, beginning to laugh in spite of the apparent sadness riddled on my face. “Today’s 26 weeks.”

He held me and laughed along with me, not sure how to respond to a pregnant wife who had, for all intents and purposes, fallen to pieces in his arms at 6:15 in the morning.

Later, while I sat alone in his office, waiting for Robert to return from class and awaiting my own 11 o’clock composition course, I felt the tears threaten again. Melanie began to kick against my abdomen–soft, fluttery kicks followed by strong jabs on the opposite side. I imagined her flexing her fingers and toes.

“Well, kiddo,” I murmured to her, blinking past the tears so I could try to finish typing my notes on Act Two of Hamlet for this evening’s class. “Your mother has officially given in to the hormones.”

Another roundhouse kick sent me straight to the bathroom.

Just at 25 weeks, I officially became that pregnant lady. The one who dissolves into unmotivated and completely unwarranted crying and laughing jags (often simultaneously). The one whose feet behave not unlike two turtles, growing to accommodate the confined spaces of footwear–expanding into comical caricatures of their former selves when left uncontained. The one whose body rebels at the most inopportune moments, sending sharp, jagged, searing pulses of pain throughout her lower abdomen and groin.

I have received an “official” cease and desist order from my obstetrician in response to my confession that I was still seeing my personal trainer once a week.

This past weekend at my first baby shower, as I attempted to thank our guests for their outpouring of love and obvious excitement for Melanie’s arrival, I could hardly get the words of gratitude past my lips. Robert broke the tension that often accompanies watching a pregnant lady cry helplessly by muttering in a stage whisper, “I knew she’d cry.” The guests laughed. I laughed (and cried) and managed to return to my point so that I could at least thank everyone. I cried again on our way home from the party, our SUV packed to capacity with Melanie’s gifts, deeply touched by their generosity and by their obvious show of love for this precious girl who hasn’t even made her grand debut yet.

So, be forewarned: my third trimester begins a week from today on November 14th. Some of you are blessedly spared my crying jags by your computer screens. Those of you who interact with me either through voice or in person, however…please know that if I dissolve into tears in the middle of our conversation, it’s not you. It’s me.

I’m that pregnant lady.