"Here. I'll take her," you instruct him as you reach for Cece early Monday morning. "Go finish getting ready."

He is so tired, but he smiles appreciatively and kisses you.

Your dear sweet husband has been awake for most of the night tending to your inconsolable daughter, who is currently suffering through the most painful phase of teething. It started around 11:30 last night, and now at a quarter to eight, after a collective total of two hours of sleep, she is still carrying on.

"I know, sweetie. I know you hurt, and I'm sorry," you tell her as she whimpers and rubs at her sleepy eyes. She is past the point of screaming now and has resorted to this pained little whine that just makes you want to stay home and cuddle her all day until she feels better. "I wish I could make it go away."

You knew this was coming. It's an inevitable part of infancy. She has been uncharacteristically cranky and drool-y lately, but up until last night, it has been bearable for all three of you. Now, though, when you look in her mouth, you can see two swollen bumps on her lower gums, and you really can't blame her for being upset.

"But you get to stay home today. Grandma's gonna come take good care of you, and you get to stay in those comfy jammies all day," you assure her, sitting down on the couch where she sniffles and gazes up at you with a pleading look. Her nose is running, and she just looks so miserable as she presses her face against you, your pink cardigan becoming her tissue. "Oh, Cece, it's gonna be okay, baby."

You kiss her head and hug her close as you begin to sway from side to side with your eyes closed. The swaying isn't great for your nausea, but it seems to be having a calming effect on her—either that or the baby Tylenol that Jim gave her is finally kicking in. She gradually grows quiet, and you pause, opening your eyes again to see her desperately gumming on one of her fists to ease her discomfort. There is bound to be a cold teething ring in the refrigerator or a frozen washcloth in the freezer, but you're so tired that when she gets bored with her fist, you just offer her your own fingers and close your eyes again until your mother rings the doorbell some time later.

Cece fusses and your stomach lurches when you stand up.

"Shh… come on. You're okay."

It's a reassurance to her and to yourself. Morning sickness came on gradually with Cece, but with this one, you aren't so lucky. Last time, you didn't miss a single day of work, but right now, you think a sick day sounds pretty good.

"Hi," you greet your mother as you let her in the front door.

"Good morning." She leans in for a hug, and Cece, who just wants her space, screeches. "Someone doesn't sound too happy to see me," she remarks, bending her knees so that she is at Cece's eye level. "What's the matter, baby?"

"She's teething," you answer with an exhausted sigh—your husband may have insisted on doing the majority of the parenting last night, but with a cranky baby in the house and your own restlessness, sleep was hard to come by. "Jim's been up with her all night."

"Ugh. That boy is a saint. Do you know how many nights your father stayed up with you or Penny when either of you were teething? Zero," she informs you bitterly as she follows you to the living room where she sets down her purse and reaches out for her granddaughter. "Oh, you poor baby. Come to Grandma, sweetheart," she coos, taking Cece into her arms and sitting on the couch next to you. "Your mommy cut her first teeth early, too, you know that? She did. She cried and cried and cried, and your Grandpa Beesly just slept through all of it every single night."

You roll your eyes and groan inwardly. It's been a year and a half since your parents divorced, but some days, your mother seems just as bitter as ever and throws in every little dig that she can towards your father. Obviously, today is one of those days, and you just don't have the patience or energy to deal with her like this right now. You also don't want Cece to grow up feeling caught between her grandparents.

"Mom, please don't pull her into that. She's five months old."

Before you can discuss anything further, Jim calls from the bottom of the stairs:

"Hey, babe? Have you seen my Blackberry?"

He's always losing that thing.

"On the kitchen counter next to the toaster," you answer back, suddenly met with nausea so strong that you are afraid to move. Your stomach turns, and you hope to God that Jim doesn't decide to make himself a PopTart while he's in there because the smell of fake strawberries just might cause you to ruin the living room rug.

Thankfully, you soon hear his footsteps leaving the kitchen, and moments later, he walks into the room with his phone in one hand and a refrigerated teething ring in the other.

"Morning," he says to the three of you, looking so tired but so happy at the same time. He is so thrilled over the new baby that he really hasn't stopped smiling since you told him.

"I heard you were up all night taking care of Miss Crabby Apple here," your mother says, nodding towards Cece, who starts to squirm as her father approaches.

"Eh, she woke up a few times," Jim shrugs, pocketing his phone and offering Cece her teething ring, which she eagerly puts right in her mouth. "You be a good girl, okay, buddy?" He rubs Cece's back and attempts to gently smooth down that little section of her hair that sticks up on the back of her head (just like his does).

Your mother looks up to give you one of those you-really-picked-a-good-one smiles, but instead, she notices that you are starting to look like you feel and gives you a concerned look. "Pammy, are you alright? You look pale."

"I'm fine," you answer as convincingly as possible. "Just, you know, a little tired."

"You sure?" She asks. "If you want to stay home today, I can take care of you, too."

"Pam?" Now Jim is concerned.

"I'm good," you lie, hand pressed over your throat as if it's possible to physically hold stuff down that way, and with a deep breath, you very carefully stand up. "Let's just get going."

xx

You have grown to dread work.

Sales is so much more difficult than you thought it would be, and if you are honest with yourself, you are pretty terrible at it. Jim has been pulling in a lot of commission lately, and by comparison, you may as well not be contributing to your joint bank account at all. You just don't have the sales "gene" or whatever it is that makes Jim so good at what he does. It's difficult to be persuasive, and even though you've come out of your shell a lot over the last four years, you have a hard time persisting if your first answer from a client or potential client is 'no.' And then when you do try, you get flustered and nearly always end up feeling stupid by the end of the call.

It's demoralizing, but with a new baby on the way, you literally can't afford to fail at your job now.

"Doing okay there, Swiss Cheese?" Jim asks, looking up from his desk.

Your eyes stay focused on your computer screen, not even cracking a smile over his use of your ridiculous nickname. "Just fine."

Except that you're sick and feeling like a failure. You've also been worrying almost constantly for more than a week, and you can't stop. There is a list of people you need to call, but because you can't suck up the courage to just pick up the phone, you have spent the last hour and a half drafting a letter to your newest client.

"Do you want water or anything?"

You open your mouth to respond, but as soon as you do, Dwight is sitting back down at his desk with a just-microwaved bowl of who knows what, and it smells even worse than those hard-boiled eggs he would eat last year. On a normal day, it would be gag-inducing, and today, it's worse. Jim even makes a face before he realizes the effect it's having on you and then practically dives out of his seat, pulling the trash can out from underneath your desk just in time.

And then you feel humiliated because you have just made a scene—and this time, it wasn't meant to teach Dwight a lesson. Everyone is watching you at an extremely vulnerable moment, and you know they will all have something to say.

"Is she contagious?" Angela calls to Jim, who ignores her and tries to help you up so you can run to the bathroom.

But when you inhale again, you are met with that absolutely sickening smell, so you end up frantically shaking him off and leaning forward to give up the rest of the cinnamon raisin toast that you had for breakfast.

"Jim, is she contagious?" Angela repeats in disgust.

"No," he responds emphatically, which is initially the perfect response, but then he keeps going and doesn't know what to say. "She's just… it's—"

"Oh my god," Kelly exclaims from somewhere behind you. "Pam, are you pregnant? Because, I mean, you guys, like, just had a kid. Jim, is she pregnant?"

He meets your eyes looking like a deer in headlights, and when he doesn't immediately answer, all hell breaks loose. Or at least your own personal nosy-coworkers-at-work version of hell. It's suddenly a free-for-all, and everyone has a comment.

"Oh my god! She is! You guys, she totally is! I knew it!"

"Damnit, Jim! You can't keep doing this to help your sales!"

"Was this one a mistake, too?"

"Birth control, man."

"At least you're married this time."

"Stop," Jim interjects, but it's already too late.

You are mortified. It's like your pre-wedding dinner all over again, and before you know it, you are hunched over crying instead of being sick.

"What's going on out here?"

And just when you thought it couldn't get any worse, Michael and a few others emerge from the kitchen.

"Pam's pregnant," Erin answers with her usual air of obliviousness.

"AGAIN? Oh my god, Jim. Do you ever leave poor Pammy alone?"

Mortified. Absolutely mortified. Maybe it's just the hormones making things seem worse, but you really don't know how you are ever going to be able to come in to work again after this.

"Spawning Tuna!"

"Nice."

"You are one potent bastard."

"You guys, stop," Jim raises his voice. "Stop."

"Why didn't you tell me first?"

"Michael, stop!" Jim practically shouts above all the commotion. You have never seen him get so defensive, but you aren't exactly in the mood to appreciate it. "Everyone, just back off, okay? Go."

They all grumble in compliance, but the damage is done, and the secret is out.

"Hey, shh…" Jim murmurs, kneeling next to you and wrapping an arm around your shoulders. He kisses your temple and lets his lips linger momentarily until your hiccups push him away.

Everyone is still watching.

"I need to get out of here," you rasp, wiping at your eyes with the same sleeve that Cece used just a few hours ago. "Jim, please. I wanna go home."

"O-okay," he nods shakily, digging into his pocket for the car keys. "Yeah, that's… we can do that. We'll go. We'll go right now. Come on."

He helps you up and grabs your bag and his, and then without turning back, you head straight to the door, ignoring the stares and Dwight's question of who is going to dispose of the bag in your desk trash can.

xx