I've been meaning to write about this time in our lives for a little while. The sweetness, the gentle rhythm, the waiting-for-baby readiness and appreciation for how brief and ephemeral these weeks are, how knowing this time won't last makes it that much more special.
And it IS like that...sometimes.
But sleep can be elusive when you're nine months pregnant. Yes, nights are interrupted by lots of peeing and leg cramps and groan-y attempts to roll over, but also, my brain just won't get on board. I'm tired all day, until about 10 pm, when it seems like the perfect time to stay up for four hours on a Saturday night answering work emails and streaming old episodes of "Charmed" while I drink my number one pregnancy craving, milk, straight from the jug (I mean, from a glass, if you're reading this, Kristie!).
That system works fine on the weekends. It's kind of weird to have the sleep schedule of my former college self at age 30 (especially since these late nights are sustained by chugging milk rather than like Sunset Blush Franzia), but whatever. Pretty much everything tells you to just listen to your body at this point.
This sleeping schedule doesn't mesh well with still working full time, though. I can't stay up until 2 and then get up at 7:30 in the hopes of getting to work on time (much less being able to form coherent sentences and contribute meaningfully to my department's work once I'm there). In fact, as I proved to myself this morning, I can't stay up until 2 and then get up at NINE with any hope for a productive, emotionally reasonable day.
That's why I'm back in bed, typing this out on my phone at almost 1 pm on a rainy, gray Sunday. I thought maybe I'd take a nap, but instead cried for awhile because I convinced myself that if I napped now, I wouldn't be able to fall asleep tonight until THREE in the morning, and all hope for not just Monday morning but a whole week of work would be lost. Plus a random girl on the internet had told me that pregnancy insomnia is linked to post-partum depression and I started feeling too guilty about not sleeping to be able to fall asleep.
See? My brain is just not being a team player.
So I cried hot hot tears into my pillow until I calmed down and got even more tired. Kristie came up and lied down with me, saying nice things like she loves me and everything is going to be fine and I can sleep if I want to and if not that's okay too. I felt calmer, and we watched rain drip from the power lines outside and giggled and cuddled in the silvery rainy light coming from the one pair of shades I'd opened until she had to leave to get her hair cut.
Samson came in to spell her, happy for a chance to curl up and sleep on our bed (he sleeps downstairs on the couch at night). We talked for a little while — it was pretty one-sided, but he's a good listener and wagged his tail the whole time — and then he pushed his velvety warm face against my swollen belly, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.
We used to cuddle like this like crazy, but ever since the something in there began kicking whatever it gets pressed up against, I think Samson kind of fell out of love with the whole idea (not that I could possibly imagine why that would be uncomfortable and maybe even sometimes a little annoying). But today he's staying like this, and the baby, who is growing and running out of room, therefore kind of losing the ability to really wind up for a good painful kick, is just sort of swaying against Samson's face. He waves his limbs gently, almost (I swear!) like he is petting the dog. I don't know if Samson likes it, but he is tolerating it (only glancing up occasionally to give me judgmental doggy side-eye — I know, buddy, he kicks me too), and I love it.
I thought about napping too, but I've decided not to make a decision about it because basic shit like that stresses me out. So I'm going back and forth, adding to this rambling Notes document and squinting to read Felicia Day's memoir without having to turn on a lamp and ruin this pretty natural light. Her writing is sometimes a little too electric and borderline anxious to lull me to sleep, so middle-of-the-day reading it is. And as for writing this down, I'm trying to convince myself that if I get it out now, I might not think about it tonight, and that combined with a warm bath, lavender essential oil, a different book , and maybe a Unisom (which I feel needlessly guilty about taking even though I know it's safe) will be the exact recipe for a good night's sleep and a successful Monday/week/adult life. I'm also considering making a list of small, manageable things to do when I get out of bed (eat lunch, put together a birthday/early Christmas package to send to a friend at some point this week, lay out my clothes for tomorrow, plug in my phone) but maybe I'll close my eyes for a little while instead and just let the gray day unfold while my sweet fetal son and my gassy, lightly snoring dog press against one another in the gray afternoon light.
The lull of the third trimester is not perfect. It is not without challenges and tears — and also not without its beauty, even when nothing else can be done but to lie still a little while longer.
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