You’re standing in the middle of the bedroom, one hand on your hip, the other gripping the hem of your shirt, which stubbornly refuses to stretch over your belly. It’s not even the cute kind of “baby bump” today — no, today you feel like a slowly expanding balloon and every piece of clothing you own is apparently allergic to the third trimester.

From down the hallway, you hear Simon’s voice echo, “We’re gonna be late!” — and you resist the urge to throw the nearest pillow in his direction.

“Heard you the first three times, Simon!” you call back, yanking a maternity top out of the laundry basket and giving it a hopeful sniff. Not clean. Of course. You toss it aside, sigh, and glance at the digital clock. The time seems to mock you.

In the living room, Hazel is definitely not putting on her shoes. She’s singing to one of them, sitting on the floor with her hair half-brushed, surrounded by a graveyard of small toys and cracker crumbs. You hear her squeaky little voice as she makes the left shoe talk to the right one. Something about one of them being a dragon.

You try to pull on a stretchy dress you swore used to fit just last week. It gets halfway down before hugging in all the wrong places.

“Simon, can you please help Hazel?” you yell, wriggling out of the dress with a grunt.

“I am helping!” he calls back, which is a lie, because now you can hear the coat closet opening and the unmistakable rustling of his jacket being zipped up. Of course, he’s ready. He’s always ready in five minutes flat. Probably just ran a comb through his hair and called it a day.

You shuffle out into the hallway in your leggings and a sports bra, feeling about as glamorous as a potato. Simon is standing by the door with the car keys in hand, clearly trying to look helpful while actually doing nothing of the sort. Hazel has somehow made less progress than before.

“Simon, love of my life,” you say, “she doesn’t even have pants on.”

He looks at Hazel. Blinks. “Well, she said she was dressed.”

“She’s four.”

“She’s convincing.”

You shoot him a glare that says not today, then scoop Hazel up — shoeless, pantsless, and mid-monologue — and carry her back to her room. You’re waddling now, and Hazel’s weight on your hip makes you feel like a top-heavy penguin.

Five minutes, one meltdown, and a pair of glittery leggings later, you’re back in the hallway. Simon’s finally wrangling Hazel into her tiny jacket while she flops around like a slippery fish. You’ve somehow managed to find a shirt that fits, even if it is technically Simon’s and has a suspicious coffee stain on the hem.

He gives you a once-over and raises a brow. “That’s mine.”