Kyle convinced me to take a babymoon about eight weeks ago—when I was seven months pregnant. He rented us a private house with its own pool and beach access on a Hawaiian island, and I wore a bikini. You heard that right. Maternity. Bikini. Bask in the imagery with me.

Kyle thought it was hot, so he took a bunch of photos of me that he loves to flip through. I’m glad he enjoys them. It’ll give him something to jerk off to while I’m out of commission after the baby finally shows up. Which is never happening. Sorry, I’m super testy and bitchy right now.

“We should take another trip,” I suggest, “since this baby is clearly not coming anytime soon. Because I’m gestating a giraffe baby and they incubate for something like fifteen months so we might as well make the most of our time. Let’s visit my sister in London.”

“Great idea. We’ll do that after the baby arrives. Babies can technically fly after two days old, but I think we should give both of you six weeks before we travel.”

“Why can’t we just go now? All I do is go to the doctor every other day because I’ve been pregnant for a hundred weeks.”

“It’s not every other day,” Kyle says calmly. He’s still flipping through photos on his phone, a small smile on his face.

“I bet I’m giving birth to a baby the size of Tubbs. A seventeen-pound baby.”

Honestly, I can’t believe that cat is only seventeen pounds. Somewhere around the halfway point of this pregnancy I’d gained seventeen pounds and, convinced Kyle was lying to me about what seventeen pounds looked like, I forced Tubbs-McGee to get on the scale with me for a weigh-in. Kyle walked in in the middle of it, me in a bra and panties, standing on our bathroom scale holding sixteen point eight pounds of orange fluff.

He thought it was funnier than I did.

“The doctor said the baby was measuring normally at your last appointment, four days ago.” Kyle sets his phone down on the nightstand as I get out of bed to examine the small bassinet we bought for the master bedroom. It’s currently being used by Tubbs-McGee. Sound asleep. I swear he snores a little bit when I lean in to check on him.

“Uh, you don’t get to be the judge of what is normal-sized versus super-sized unless it’s living in your body.”

“Fair enough.”

“We need to get another bassinet.”

“Why?”

“Because Tubbs likes this one.” I look up, wondering why he’s being so especially thick-headed. “I don’t think they’ll both fit in the same bassinet, Kyle.”

“Uh-huh.” He nods slowly.

“We need to do that tomorrow. I’m already overdue and the baby could come at any moment. Where did we get this one, do you remember? Do you think we can get another one delivered tomorrow?”

“I’m sure we can,” Kyle agrees smoothly. “Or we can use the crib that’s in the nursery, ten feet down the hallway.”

“It’s thirty-five steps from your side of the bed and forty-two steps from my side of the bed. I counted.”

“Okay.”

“Maybe we should switch sides.”

“Whatever you want. You want me to move over now?”

“But the bassinet is on my side of the bed,” I object. Why is motherhood already so tricky?

“The bassinet the cat is using,” Kyle points out.

“Right.” See, this is why I married him. He’s rational and good at planning. “Yeah, we should switch now.”

“Okay.”

Instead of sliding over Kyle gets up and joins me next to the bassinet. We stare down at Tubbs-McGee together like the proud parents we are.

“You’re going to be a great mother.”

“I know,” I scoff. “I’m totally not worried about it at all.”

“You bought Tubbs a present so he wouldn’t feel excluded by the new baby’s arrival.”

“That’s totally normal behavior. Did you read Socks like I told you to?” I ask, referencing a children’s book by Beverly Cleary about a cat who feels left out when his human’s new baby arrives. I cried when I read it. In my defense, I was well into the third trimester and on an organization bender in the baby’s nursery when I’d come across the book in our growing library for the baby. So I took a break and read the book out loud to Tubbs-McGee and, well, there was a very dramatic plot twist in that book. A plot twist meant for seven-year-olds, not pregnant women, clearly. “Did you? I’m still scarred, Kyle.”

“I did. We’ll make sure Tubbs doesn’t feel left out, I promise.”

“Okay.”

Kyle takes my hand and leads me back toward the bed, brushing a kiss at my nape as he does. “We can always practice some of those completely unsubstantiated methods of inducing labor, if you like.”

He says this like we didn’t just test that theory two nights ago. But also, sure, why not? I swear there’s something wrong with me. I know, I know, it’s totally normal for some women to have a heightened sex drive during late pregnancy. But also, it’s normal for some women to want nothing to do with sex during late pregnancy.

I feared I was in the minority to be this into Kyle this late in the game. The internet’s only answer was crap like “you sure can!” Look, internet, I didn’t ask if I could. I asked if it was normal to want to.

Anywho.

My husband has done his research as well and we’ve experimented with what must be every known sexual position for late pregnancy known to exist.

My current favorite is bent over his bathroom counter. It reminds me of our reunion, when he banged me over his bathroom counter while we were still mid-fight. When I still wanted to kill him. Not that I want to kill him now, but it’s still a real happy memory for me.

Afterwards we take a shower together because I’m paranoid about going into labor and not having time to take a shower before going to the hospital and having to go into the delivery room all post-sex messy. What? Like no one thinks about that? They should.

I wish I could tell you that it worked and that Kellan Hayden Kingston was born mere hours later, but that would be a lie. It was another five days until he made his appearance, nearly two weeks late, if anyone is keeping track. Kyle said it was only ten days so I told him to strap a watermelon to his stomach and cart it around for ten days and get back to me before he uses the word ‘only’ again.

Kellan didn’t weigh seventeen pounds, thankfully. Seven pounds, two ounces, and I did it all myself, naturally. Just kidding. I had an epidural and Kyle held my hand the entire time. I decided he didn’t have to wait in the waiting room pretending to be a 1950s husband because I needed him by my side being the amazing twenty-first-century husband that he is.

It was great, having him there. I’m pretty sure he researched how to be helpful in the delivery room because he was basically an expert. He kept me distracted, fed me ice chips, and rubbed my feet. And when it was time to really get down to business he kissed me and said, “I love you, Daisy.” Then he held my hand without complaining no matter how hard I squeezed his. He helped keep me on track with my breathing and then it was over.

No, not really. I mean, at the time it wasn’t that simple. It was hours and hours of sweating and pushing and general agony, while wondering how anyone survives it. But now in retrospect, it’s easy to gloss over the hard parts and focus on what matters. Kellan. He’s perfect, and I’m enamored. It’s still early days, but so far he’s an easy baby. Sleeps well, nurses well. And Kyle is every bit as good a father as you’d imagine.