I used much simpler words to describe what I was going through every single day. On my worst days, if I sneezed, laughed too loudly, or lifted a full laundry basket the wrong way, I couldn’t always make it to the bathroom in time.
It was not something I chose, nor was it something that happened because I had neglected my health. So I bought discreet protective underwear and wore it on difficult days, tucking the package carefully under the folded towels in the bathroom where only my husband, Scott, knew it was kept.
Scott teased me about the underwear every now and then. Early on, I forced myself to laugh along with him because I thought laughing meant we were still on the same team.
Lately, though, those jokes had started landing differently, feeling sharper and sounding much louder whenever his friends were around. “You worry way too much, Gemma,” Scott told me one morning when I pulled him aside and asked him to stop bringing it up at brunch.
“I’m not worried,” I answered quietly as I adjusted the baby bottles on the counter. “I just don’t love being the punchline of every joke.”
“It’s a love language, babe,” Scott replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. “If I couldn’t tease you, I’d have to hate you.”
I let it go because I was constantly exhausted, and the triplets needed my energy far more than I needed to win an argument. Brandon was the one friend who never joined in on the teasing, having been Scott’s best friend since their freshman year at Ohio State University.
He was a tall, quiet man who actually remembered which triplet was which, always taking the time to ask how I was sleeping. “You look completely wrecked, Gemma,” Brandon said kindly to me one afternoon. “Let me hold Wyatt while you sit down and eat something hot.”
