May Column Winner

Adventures with Allie: See you from the stock tank

By Allie Prater, Cushing Citizen

There’s nothing quite like being 8 months pregnant at the start of summer. The world is warming, flowers are blooming, and my ankles have vanished without a trace.

People keep telling me, “You’re glowing!” And I appreciate the sentiment, but I feel more like I’m simmering. I’m not so much glowing as steaming, like a dumpling left too long in the basket. My internal thermostat is broken, the baby has taken over all my vital organs, and I’ve developed a deep and personal relationship with my hand-held fan.

Don’t get me wrong, I love this baby, I absolutely do. But growing a human while nature simultaneously tries to roast me like a rotisserie chicken is a test I did not study for. My doctor says I should take walks. Outside. In Oklahoma. In May. That’s adorable. 

I waddled to the car yesterday morning, planning on going to the park for a walk and nearly melted into a sidewalk puddle. My sweet neighbor asked if I was okay. I said, “I’m either going into labor or having a heatstroke—50/50, pick one.”

Then there are the bugs. Lord, the bugs. Normally I try to coexist peacefully with nature, but now I’m a one-woman buffet. Mosquitoes are acting like I’m the main course at an all-you-can-eat blood bar. They are out in force and determined to chew on me like I’m brisket at a Fourth of July cookout. I would bat them away, but I can’t see past my belly to aim properly, so I just sort of slap the air and hope for the best.

No amount of citronella, deet, or any other bug spray has come to my aid this year.

And don’t get me started on the clothes. There is no maternity sundress designed for this level of expansion and perspiration. I am rotating between the same two stretchy outfits because everything else feels like a trap. Buttons? Evil. Zippers? Not happening. Anything fitted? Hilarious. My current uniform is what I like to call “swamp casual”, equal parts comfort and resignation.

Also, every store has decided it’s swimsuit season. Good for them. Meanwhile, I am over here trying to find a way to submerge myself in a cattle tank just to cool off. There’s a literal stock tank from Atwood’s in my backyard now. I float in it like a manatee and dare anyone to say a word because not only is it cool, but it has been the best pain relief I have ever felt.

But the real kicker? The unsolicited advice. “You’re going to miss being pregnant,” they say. Miss what? The inability to roll over without assistance? The sensation of being kicked in the ribs at 2 a.m.? The tiny human head pressing directly on my bladder every time I try to go anywhere more than six feet from a bathroom? I can barely get in and out of the car without sounding like I’m auditioning for a farm animal role in a school play.

Still, I know that despite the sweat, the swelling, and the swarm of bloodthirsty insects, there’s something magical about this season of life. My neighbors wave more, people hold doors open, and strangers smile at me like I’m a sacred vessel instead of a waddling furnace in sandals. There’s kindness in all the discomfort.

And there’s also perspective. Because as miserable as I may be in this heat, this humidity, and this body that now requires a three-point turn to just get off of the couch, I’m growing something pretty amazing. I’m just doing it while sweating through what used to be an oversized t-shirt that now fits like a crop top.

So if you see me this summer, red-faced and slightly damp, walking very slowly toward the shade with a mosquito stuck to my forehead and a look of determination in my eyes, just know: I’m not giving up. I’m just giving in…to the chaos, the beauty, and the ridiculousness of being heavily pregnant in the heat.

And if you offer me a cold drink, I might cry. Or hug you. Or fall asleep sitting up. It’s hard to say.

Either way, I’ll see you from the stock tank because I will not be leaving this little slice of heaven until baby boy gets here.

Be kind to your neighbors.

Be kind to your pets.

Love and protect the history that surrounds you.