Cameron

There are very few things I fear in life but, up to this point, my wife has been 99% of them.

Not that she’s mean. My wife couldn’t hurt a fly. Only once did Grace threaten to squish a bug—a caterpillar—and, in her defense, it did have “many, many legs that would crawl up her tummy.”

A tummy that we are both quite protective of nowadays.

I escorted the caterpillar outside as tears rolled down Grace’s face, holding her cardigan tight around her stomach and saying, “Well, don’t hurt it, Cameron!”

Yes, the 99% of my fear stems from Grace’s pregnancy hormones.

The hormones are like a car engine backfiring. Unexpected. Random. And startling every time.

Tonight, as I’m making us after-dinner but pre-Bachelorette viewing snacks, Grace said the sentence:

“Cameron, can we get some pineapple tea?”

I halted mid-hot chocolate pour.

“Pardon?” I ask. “Is that a thing?”

I don’t say it with any sense of repulsion because I know better than to question Grace’s cravings. I questioned chocolate on pickles three months ago, and I was dead wrong on that one. I truly do believe my wife is a creative genius and pregnancy has only honed those senses down into wacky but fun food choices. And, for the record, chocolate on pickles is heaven on earth.

So, yes, while I do wonder if pineapple tea is even a thing, it’s not like I’m questioning her sanity here.

“Yes, pineapple tea,” she says. “I just saw it on a commercial.”

I glance up to find Grace in her usual position at this time of night, right before we settle into our nightly routine: on the couch looking back at me at as much of an angle as her large belly will currently allow, with one arm swung over the back of the sofa and our two dogs huddled around her like protective knights guarding their queen.

“Well…we could get some…”

“Now?” she interrupts.

“Now?” I ask.

“Now.”

Her eyes narrow. Mine narrow in return.

I place down the hot chocolate packet I was preparing. Dang, I was really looking forward to that too. But that’s not the real issue…the real issue is…

“But Chad…” I mutter.

Grace grins. “We can make it back in time for Chad.”

I’m rooting for Chad in this season of The Bachelorette. He’s who I have all my money on. And tonight I think he’s right on the cusp of not getting that rose. The dummy was really pushing his luck last week by giving her a gift wrapped in leather.

“Maybe he’s flaunting his hunting skills?” Grace had said, notably wincing.

“And also his creepiness, I mean come on!” My hand waved out to the television at precisely the same time Ian flooded our group text with taunting memes.

Ian has his bets placed on Steven.

Ugh, Steven. I haven’t seen Steven bring flowers on a date yet. I haven’t seen Steven break down about his tortured past.

Chad deserves her.

“Cameron, focus.” Grace says with a snap of her fingers. “Pineapple tea.”

“Right,” I say. “Okay, we’ve got…” I glance at my watch. “Thirty minutes.”

Grace throws her hands in the air, “More than enough time!”

I laugh. She’s adorable when her pregnant hormones get their itch scratched. Her cheeks get rosy, and I swear her eyes have a sort of sparkle to them. She says it’s her pregnant glow. I say she’s just gorgeous as is.

“Okay, cool, let me grab the keys and some pants—”

“Aw, I like your boxer tush.”

“Thanks, but convenience stores don’t, Holmes,” I say with a chuckle, making my way over to the couch to help her up. She’s about the size of a globe at this point. And not just a model of the Earth, but Saturn and all its rings too. Our two dogs are essentially her orbital moons with how much they pace around her. Even Hank, our oldest golden retriever who looks like more Gandalf the Gray nowadays is still on his tippy toes sniffing her like any second her water will break. He’s just a worry wart; we’ve got two more months until that happens.

Rushing out of the room once she’s steady, I throw on some grey low-slung sweatpants—hot baby daddy material, I know—and grab my keys and wallet.

By the time I make it out to the garage, Grace is waddling out to the car with the dogs in tow.

“Grace, honey, what are you doing?”

She blinks. “Well, we can’t leave Hank and Buddy alone. What if they want something too?”

I wipe my hand over my face and shake it out.

Okay, sure, fair point.

Grace makes it to the front seat, buckling herself in—the buckle clicking several times until it finally reaches across her belly—and sighing a breath of relief, eyes wide.

“Close one,” she breathes.

“Get any bigger and we’ll just have to toss you in the trunk,” I say, turning the Jeep’s engine.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“How else can we fit you in?”

She sticks out her tongue. I laugh. She’s too cute for her own good.

I drive down the road to the nearest convenience store. It’s only a quick two-minute drive. We can get in and get out, right in time for the show.

I exit the car, leaving the air conditioning on for the mom and the kiddos, and browse down aisle after aisle of the store until…no pineapple tea.

Because of course there isn’t.

I hop back in the car, settling my hands on the wheel.

“We got nothing,” I say.

“Well then, next stop.”

“Grace—”

“Pineapple tea, Cameron.”

“But Chad…”

“Pineapple. Tea.”

It’s threatening. The hormones are building. I can practically feel them rolling off her in waves. It’s honestly kind of hot, but also…

“Yes ma’am,” I say.

And off we go.

I drive down the road, ignoring texts from Ian that pop up asking if we’re ready for Chad’s final episode. Grace runs her smooth hand down my arm every time my phone buzzes.

“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” she mutters. I feverishly nod in agreement.

Yeah, what does he know?

I pull into our next stop: the local chain grocery store.

“This place has everything. If pineapple tea exists—”

“I saw it on tv,” Grace singsongs. “I know it does.”

“Well then it has to be here.”

I start to step out but then I catch Grace already reaching to unbuckle.

“Hey, woah, no, no, no.”

“Let me come with you this time,” she says. It’s not a plea. It’s a demand. Shudder. “Maybe you’re just not looking hard enough.”

“Grace Holmes Kaufman, there’s no time for waddling…”

“There’s always time for waddling,” she says, pointing a finger at me.

I glance in the backseat.

“Well, what about the dogs?” I ask.

Her eyes light up. The hormones are in my favor.

“Oh! Do you think they have those cute bowtie dog biscuits too?” she asks.

“I’ll check! You stay.”

With a simple shrug—one that is so cute I have to lean over and kiss her—I get out and scour the aisles once more.

No. Freaking. Pineapple. Tea.

A text from Ian buzzes on my phone. Fifteen minutes until Chad’s fate is decided, it reads.

Damn him.

“So what if we just made it?” I ask five minutes later when I hop back in the car. “With pineapples? And, I don’t know, sugar or something? How else do you make tea?”

Grace shakes her head. “No, that’d take too much time.”

My eyes widen, “Would it?!”

“Let’s try one more place,” she says, waving a hand. “That organic place.”

I’m driving before she even finishes, peeling out of the lot as the car fills with her borderline maniacal laughter. Hank licks her hand and Buddy howls out the rolled down window.

The mother of my future child is a Disney villain. I’m convinced.

One final parking lot. One final store.

I approach Grace’s rolled down window, giving another kiss to her forehead because I really can’t resist her freckles. “And don’t let her move,” I add, pointing a finger at Buddy’s snout who is now wiggling his way up from the backseat. His tongue lolls out in understanding. “Good boy.”

I dash up to the entrance, the sliding doors barely squeaking open before I side-slide my way through them. Panting, I run to the back aisle indicating teas. And it’s a minefield.

Chai, green, white peony, oolong, …purple?!

My mind is swimming, but I remember I only have one job.

Find the fruit teas.

Find the pineapple.

I skim across each row until I reach the brightly colored packaging for fruit teas. At least, I thought it was when I saw blueberry but now I’m at carrot and that’s not really a fruit and also… carrot tea?

“Wow, what a cute puppy!”

I twist on the spot. Then there’s a bark.

Buddy.

Before I can even move, I hear Grace’s delightful laughter that has somehow gotten even more delightful since getting pregnant.

“It’ll be five minutes, I swear,” she says.

I imagine the employee leaning over conspiratorially as her voice echoes down the aisle, “I won’t tell anyone.”

And then I see my super pregnant, beautiful wife strolling down the aisle with the two guard dogs in tow.

“Traitors,” I mutter to the both of them. Buddy at least has the decency to look away from me. Hank in his old stubborn age just seems proud to give mama whatever she wants. I understand the impulse, but come on, dude.

“Find it yet?” Grace asks, resembling a penguin as she makes her way down the aisle.

My penguin.

Grace’s hair has gotten so long over the past few months. She likes to let it hang down and flow behind her—says she feels like a mermaid and, I have to agree, she is a spitting image of Ariel. All she’s missing is the purple shell bra.

My hand goes to her side, tracing the swell of her stomach. Maybe it’s the caveman must-make-babies brain of mine, but I love how she looks nowadays. I love how she’s cooking up what will be a combination of both of us. A true terror, if I do say so myself.

“Are you admiring my oven again?” Grace asks, lifting an eyebrow passively as she focuses on skimming the teas.

“Your oven is very erotic,” I whisper into her ear, planting a kiss at the shell of her ear as I rub her stomach.

Grace groans through her smile, leaning into my touch.

“While I love kitchen talk, aren’t you worrying about Chad?”

“Who is Chad?” I ask, planting another soft kiss along her collarbone.

“Found it!”

My head jolts back to find a bright yellow box in her hand with the words Pineapple tea plastered on the front.

“How in the…”

“Well don’t linger, Kaufman. We won’t make it back in time!”

Grace and I herd the dogs back to the front of the store. The lady at the register throws us a less than discreet wink as we walk past after I pay for the tiny box.

It is precisely two minutes before the show starts once we walk through the front door.

Grace settles on the couch, sitting back at her throne with the two gentleman dog knights at her side, heads placed in their rightful positions back on her hand and lap respectively.

I heat up our kettle, pouring it over the tea bags which do, in fact, have an overwhelming scent of pineapple. Though, I can’t tell if it’s a sweet scent or sweetly sickening.

I take my place on the opposite end of the couch so that Grace can plop her feet into my lap for obligatory preggo foot rubs. Our two monstrous concoctions of fruity tea sit on the coasters on the coffee table as we wait for the show.

6:59pm.

Right on time.

And then a commercial starts. A new tea named Bon Appetit, with new flavors like chocolate and caramel. To be honest, it sounds horrible. Who puts chocolate in tea?

But then…

It clicks.

Bon Appetit.

Pineapple tea.

My head swivels ever so slowly over to my gorgeous, pregnant wife whose plump, pink lips are also pursed together, soured by the realization that is hitting us at the same time.

“I wanted Bon Appetit,” she mutters.

“You wanted Bon Appetit,” I echo.

I reach for our teas, handing Grace’s to her since I know her belly will block that path anyway, and we sip in tandem. Both of our lips purse together more.

After a moment, she says, “I don’t think chocolate tea would have tasted any better, though.”

I nod in agreement.

“I wonder if Chad will get her a leather purse this time around.”

“One can hope,” I mutter. “One can hope.”

I place my hand on her outstretched ankle, stroking the tendon with my thumb as she groans into her mistaken tea.

But, mistaken or not, she keeps sipping it.

“You know you don’t have to keep drinking it.”

“God, it’s horrible,” she says, leaning forward to place it on the coffee table. She can’t reach it—even with Hank’s nose attempting to nudge it forward for her—so I place it on the coaster instead.

Grace leans back and looks to me, her nose scrunched up.

I no longer feel the waves of hormones around me, only her. Only my wife. My mermaid penguin.

“Love you, Kaufman,” she says. The tone is apologetic, but it shouldn’t be.

I chuckle, stroking her foot.

“Love you too, Holmes.”

Chad does ultimately get eliminated that night. And I do get gloating texts and gifs from Ian since Steve is now in the final three. But I also have my wife sitting next to me, sending back equally as nasty texts in defense of Chad.

And I continue to sip my own pineapple tea.

Bon appetit.