Sometime between my going to bed on Tuesday night and waking up on Wednesday morning, my belly grew. Again. Exponentially.

It is now roughly the size of a watermelon. And not just any watermelon. A Biggest-Size-Prize-winning watermelon at the county fair.

I went to the gym on Wednesday for my prenatal yoga class and, because I have a watermelon sitting on my bladder, decided I had best go to the ladies’ room before I went to class. The old-people’s swim class must have just gotten out because I was the only woman under 70 in the room. Most of the old ladies were happily changing in the locker room, but two more modest souls decided to use the two bathroom stalls.

I waited for them to be done.

And waited.

And waited.

After about five minutes of standing there with my legs crossed, I seriously considered yelling, “Hey! Get a move on! There’s a pregnant lady here who needs to pee!” But my mama raised me to respect my elders, so I kept my trap shut, glowered at the stall doors, and left.

The other women’s bathroom at the gym is on the third floor, so I huffed up two flights of stairs, the watermelon bouncing gracelessly against my bladder. Thank God for panty liners.

As I rounded the second floor landing, a guy passed me. “Hoo, girl. You look like you’re about to pop!” he said. “What are you? Nine months?”

I smiled weakly. “Six and a half.”

His eyebrows shot up.

“I’m having twins.”

His eyebrows shot up more. “I got five kids. Ain’t none of ’em twins. I don’t envy you. You’re gonna have your hands full.”

“Yes,” I said and continued wheezing up the last few steps to the locker room. I wasn’t sure whether to be offended or grateful. It was nice that a stranger – a male stranger, no less – was sympathetic to my plight.

It was also disturbing to know that the watermelon I’m carrying around really is as big as I think it is. I tend to magnify problems, and knowing this about myself allows me to dismiss them, to say things like, “Oh, it’s really not as bad as you think.” But apparently, at least this time, it is as bad as I think.

After using the ladies’ facilities, I looked at the watermelon in the mirror. It’s hard to imagine that it’s going to get even bigger. But I’ve still got 12 weeks to go, so it will get bigger. Only God knows how much.

I think, just to be on the safe side, I should invest in a walker with a sling between the handles. The sling can hold up my belly. And the walker can hold up the rest of me.

Better yet, I’ll get a motorized one.

And a Hoyer lift to get me in and out of bed.

Won’t that be the life?