Not really, I think that’s the only Friends quote I touch on.
Yesterday was Monday. I slept in until 10:30 am. And even then it was just the guilt that propelled me out from under those covers.
It’s not that I’ve gotten lazy (OK, maybe a little lazy). It’s just that I don’t sleep through the night anymore. Sleeping used to be my specialty. If given the green light, I could sleep on cue at any time, in any situation. I’m not kidding. I’ve had doctors suggest a possible form of narcolepsy, but I’ve refrained from actually getting tested as I like having a driver’s license.
heh heh… heh… I’m going to be a great mother.
But my time as a champion sleeper has expired. Instead my night goes something like this:
Sprawl on top of covers wearing only the XL granny bloomers you stocked up on at Walmart because you “were told by your doctor you needed them” (that’s all you can comfortably fit into). Open window and turn fan on “high”, even though it’s January.
Realize thirty seconds later that you can’t lie on your back anymore as you become light headed and get that “cardiac arrest” feeling. Start gasping for air. Grunt liberally as you attempt to, in any way, come out of this supine position.
Lie on right side with pillow between your knees. Start to drift off, but wake every five minutes – as your right arm and both your legs go numb – and swap head and knee pillows; see if that makes a difference. It doesn’t.
After about fifteen minutes, total leg paralysis sets in. Rotate to left side. Repeat the above step. Wake yourself up twenty minutes later with some grotesque nasal grunt/snort on the exhale (Was that sound really coming from you? You were barely even asleep!). Ignore the fact that your nose is bleeding; this is the most comfortable position you’ve found so far; you can pretend to care about the stains in the morning.
This whole pregnancy sleep-dance is ongoing throughout the night. Every night. It’s exhausting. And the days are only mildly more comfortable. If you could get your hands on a Borat-style mankini / crotch-sling, you’d be golden. But I haven’t found one yet. It’s like…remember the time you swallowed a whole pumpkin and rapidly gained thirty-five pounds and your calves and feet became pitted and your butt innards became outards? No? Remember…how your areolas expanded so far that everything was suddenly nipple? And they seemed to get so dark they were like navy blue at times? No, eh? Oh… well…it’s like that anyway. I would imagine.
So what era has ended? Hell no, it’s not the yet end of my sexy twenties; rock on, sexy twenties (even though, technically, I’m in my thirties and physically incapable of having sex at the moment). It’s the end of my working life. For now anyway. I went from twelve years of grade school to seven years of university to five years of working and, as of February 1st, I just stopped. It was a weird feeling, waking up naturally at 10:30 am on a Monday, a mixture of guilt and exhilaration. I wasn’t really sure what to do, how to proceed. Sure, there are a lot of things yet to be done before this precious child vaginally bludgeons his way into the world. But it’s only my first day off. There’s not really any pressure. And I only work well under pressure. I’m an “excels at gunpoint”, eleventh hour kinda gal.
So I napped. A few times. I ate. I got a sassy mom haircut. I painted my nails (not the toes, I can’t reach those). I had a bath with Epsom salts. I watched the first half of “Hall Pass”. Things got a little racy when my midwife came by and gave me a giant Q-tip for my “Group B Strep” test, so that was an unexpected bonus. She just handed it to me and got me to do it myself in the washroom, but still. Rrrrrracy.
Now it’s Tuesday. 9:22 am. I woke up early with the best of intentions but so far I’ve eaten PB&J toast, turned on CBC news (then turned it off because it was an extended interview with the new “Blackberry” group, for which I don’t give a Jaysus), then stared blankly at this screen overly-enunciating the word “bludgeon”, repeatedly, in the voice of Sean Connery. Not because I’m crazy, just because I typed it above and then realized what a cool word it is. I could see how that might look creepy to someone who would happen upon me in that moment, but it’s really just a neat word that deserves articulation. And it naturally comes out in Sean Connery’s voice. You try saying it a few times…
Seeee? You’re James Bond!
[I tend to get a little spacey in my third trimester.]
Pretty soon, such activities of leisure will be just fond memories. First I will endure a pain that, I am told, is like nothing I have experienced or can even imagine.
[But I still try. I imagine it like…Remember when we were young and other kids/we used to flip our eyelids under so they’d be inside out? Well I imagine it being like that. But once they’re flipped, you keep going, and pull them right over the top and back of your head, maybe even tuck your hair in. Like a swim cap. Except all of this happens with your vagina.]
Then I will have a little buddy around all the time. Maybe he’ll enjoy my Sean Connery voice. Maybe he’ll have suggestions for how we can occupy our days together. I’ll probably follow his lead. Hopefully he’ll have some good ideas because jeez, if I truly gave into my instincts, we’d spend the days pooping, eating and napping. And what baby wants to do that?
Not too much longer. I’ll keep you posted.