Swimming into the Third Trimester

January. We have come out of a month of sickness; my husband, the 4 year-old, and the almost two-year-old. An all-consuming sickness. Our kitchen counter held six (mostly empty) Calpol and Nurofen bottles, nose spray, Vaseline and far too many tissues. I couldn’t escape the chaos; I was drowning in lemsip and hot water bottles. I couldn’t sink with this ship – who would make all the toast.

Today, I went swimming because everyone is better, I have childcare and I’m feeling large. I need to move and float, or I will scream and kick. The baby kicks all night and my mind races – the coming months loom large, larger even than me.

I go swimming and halfway through, nine or ten elderly women enter the pool.  A highly energetic trainer brings in a gigantic portable speaker and begins pumping high-energy club tunes. He is jumping and pumping and flexing and shouting at them to, ‘Move ladies, like your life depends on it.” And I’m sure it does.

I am laughing and swimming very slowly in the fast lane because it’s the only one that’s free. Ten elderly women pump and jump and bounce to club music next to me. It is surreal, life is surreal. Am I really pregnant for the third time? What possessed us? Will we be ok? Is anyone ever really ok?

These women seem to be. They continue to jump and pump and laugh and smile. They are so brave. One or two of them are in their late eighties. If they can do this, surely I can too.