At thirty weeks pregnant, Emma felt like a house.
A very tired, very uncomfortable house that couldn't see her own feet and had to pee every twenty minutes.
"This is different than with Grace," she complained to James one morning, struggling to tie her shoes.
"How so?"
"With Grace, I was pregnant and tired. With Oliver, I'm pregnant and tired and chasing a two-year-old who thinks naptime is optional and has the energy of a small tornado."
As if on cue, Grace ran through the kitchen wearing her tutu, rain boots, and nothing else. "I'm a ballerina firefighter!"
"You're half-naked," Emma called after her. "We're leaving for school in ten minutes!"
"Five more minutes!" Grace shouted back, already in the living room constructing what appeared to be a fort out of couch cushions.
James ki
