After almost three years of trying, my husband, Christopher* and I finally conceived. The pregnancy was a difficult one, and I was put on bed rest in my third trimester. This meant Chris had to help me with certain tasks, namely meal prep, bathing and restroom breaks. Chris, God bless him, waited on me hand and foot during this time. Since we were expecting, we purchased a baby monitor which we used as an intercom system during my bed rest. If I needed something, I would just speak up and Chris would appear at lightening speed that would rival a teleporting Star Trek character.
As I lie in bed complacently watching the ceiling fan, the baby was becoming more and more active as my bladder became more and more full. A five-pound fetus using your bladder as a trampoline can be excruciating, to say the least. I resolved to enroll my little one in gymnastics class once she became a toddler, when she can bounce around all she wants. But right now, I had to pee. “Okay, babe!” Chris doesn’t simply help me off the bed and walk me to the bathroom, which is a few feet away. Oh, no. Prince Charming has to lift me and carry me. Chivalry is not dead, good people! Hoisting me up did not do my bladder any favors. We were less than a foot away from the bathroom when the levee breaks. Yes, it happened. I peed all over my beloved spouse, the father of my child. Chris begins to panic. “Oh, my God! Did your water break?”