Nights are the worst. Can’t remember when was the last time I didn’t wake up in the night either drenched in sweat or coughing my lungs out. Doc said to support my belly if I cough. Hah! Who has the time or inclination? Too busy trying to keep my insides in.
If Rockstar’s next to me, sometimes I hear a click, and if I turn to look up at the ceiling, I see blue stars scattered above us. Rockstar has this habit of re-arranging his Metkids-bought turtle night light “just so” on a box of Mr Men books (it has to be on that box), then toggling it to the “blue star light” setting before going back to sleep. The turtle switches itself off after 45 mins.
When we’re not co-sleeping, I wander in at night and half the time the turtle is on – meaning Rockstar’s woken in the night recently. Come to think of it, before the night light, if we were holding hands, you’d think he was asleep, and then insistent little fingers would adjust your fingers over his other hand just so, before settling back for the night. Little things I never knew to miss, back when I still worked and enforced a strict No Co-Sleeping rule. When I worked, uninterrupted sleep was a cardinal rule. What if I made a mistake at work the next day because I was tired? I hate mistakes at work. It’s why I rarely made them. Now all that’s a myth. And I feel fine!
<Amazed> Hyperchondriac Me, who must get 6 straight hours or the next work/ school day is ruined, can’t remember when she last got 6 straight hours – or her day ruined.
After Rockstar’s night cough, I got sick for real. Pain. Real. In my throat, where my body is convinced I am trying to down glass or at least a golf ball with every swallow. (Had the family doc check it out at behest of Gynea, who warned prolonged sore throats could affect the baby – doc said it was just going to be very uncomfortable for me but I could still do without the meds if I really wanted, so I did.)
I repaired to Rockstar’s Disney Cars-decked room, sans collar chain-rattling dog, night light-flicking child, and snoring husband. Well, almost. After the first night, half the time the dog now parks herself directly under the air-conditioner in Rockstar’s room, propping all four legs up against the wall in supplication of Flo and Ramone.
Without most of the noise however, I could now concentrate on the real night deal: having my insides kicked around. How thick is the womb lining? An image of the baby moving my insides about through the sac insinuates itself in my head: Building blocks! Stacking Rings! Squeeze toy!
Maybe it has to do with Rockstar. Someone pointed out we often don’t converse with him like he’s 4, and as a result I recently found myself viewing my wobbling belly as…….. A friend, or at least acquaintance of mine. One who is sticky about medications, my occasional half-shot-of-espresso, and no wine (Shiraz! How I miss you so!) Buddy, not baby. My little Mormon buddy, entertaining herself in the middle of the night – the only time she wouldn’t hear Rockstar’s piping voice – with my innards.
(It’s not over when she’s out, since I want to breastfeed… (Though at least I can pump and dump if I’ve been drinking or medicating, have to admit I rarely pumped and dumped, meaning I rarely drank or medicated in the year I expressed milk for Rockstar around the dealing room schedule). But I’m thinking what changes will be more like Now, Where Have I Left My Buddy This Time? <Looking around for baby carriage>)
The baby doesn’t like when I lie flat on my back. It’s how I “check” she’s kicking, rather than sit through the day waiting to make sure she’s kicking fine. (What did Babycenter.com say, 10 kicks in 2 hours at least?) That came in useful when I initially wanted to show Rockstar baby kicks – lie flat on my back and usually it’s not long before we get a little nudge in protest. (My Gynea would explain it’s because the position cuts off blood flows a bit, which this baby seems fussy about. My belly wobbles in annoyance when my Gynea examines me on my back…) But Rockstar’s now passed the It Moves! It’s Alive! A-liiiiiive! Phase. We’re now in the Without Looking Up From Lego On Bed Next To Me: “Your belly’s wobbling again..” <jaded Been There, Done That expression>
I think she’s saying things to me too. Either that or prolonged lack of sleep is giving me hallucinations:
Sorry, Mum, need to move the furniture around in here. I don’t understand what 3am is yet, either. Did I wake you?
<nudge> And the sofa should go…. Here!
<ripple> But it’s too close to the tv…
Now, this piques Rockstar’s interest. “What’s the baby saying, Mum?” “She can hear your voice, she knows you’re reading to her.” “She’s saying she’ll be well taken care of, with such a responsible big brother.” (Shut up. If my thin-skinned fusspot son gives me problems when the baby comes……. He was hard enough to handle when there was only one of him, two like that and I could turn to a life of crime or drugs. It’s not like she’s going to be able to say No I’m Not Saying That, Mum’s Making Up Crap Again for awhile… I’ll….. think of something else when she’s out and I have some idea what she’s like.)
“She’s saying she couldn’t ask for a better role model in an older sibling, darling.”
“Whatthebabysaying,Whatthebabysaying, WHATTHEBABYSAYING NOW, MU-UM?”
She’s Saying Shut Up And Leave Your Mother To Vegetate. “Mum” is now a cow who needs like, 30 seconds to roll herself into a sitting position to face you.
How the hell do elephants stay pregnant for almost 2 years? No wonder they’re endangered.
Morning comes and Rockstar’s room door swings silently open. A wary, “Did you have a good sleep, Mum?” greets me. But the real reason I remember to make extra effort to invite him into his red race car bed for a cuddle – and SMILE – is because he’s looking at me like he’s Sigourney Weaver with the flame thrower and I’m the toothy Alien Queen dripping acid-saliva from my fangs and laying umpteen eggs that will hatch into those scrabbly spider-things that spit alien spawn into your mouth, wrap their legs around your head and wait til the spawn is big enough to chew its way out your stomach. I mean, I like Ms Weaver and all, but really, if I had to birth that many evil little things……… I’m just saying right now I understand why Alien Queen is such a bitch.
When did I actually go all hissy Alien Queen on Rockstar? Can’t remember, exactly. But I consider it too often anyway. Cos I feel crap too often. In a perfect world I should’ve been snapping at him if he deserved it – not because I lost control, couldn’t keep my temper, had a bad day. I do apologize after, if I think I was too short with him (he and I strive to be “very fair” about this – I do it this way to encourage him to always tell me the truth, even if, especially if it’s his fault), but it’s just been a long, long pregnancy, this one. Please dear Lord, please may the baby’s arrival be better, not worst than this.
Rockstar climbs in and burrows under my covers gleefully. It’s still another blissful 15 minutes or so, before we finally hear Kings’ voice at the open door. “Hey! It’s early, I told you to go back to sleep! WHEN did you invite yourself in here??”
Sigh. So unevenly matched, the two males in our home, for the battle that lies ahead……
PS: In case you’re wondering, the one time I remember actually going all Alien Queen, Rockstar then innocently said “JD wanted to come in,” (the dog goes for a walk with our helper first thing in the morning) and then closed the door and went looking for something else to entertain himself. Boy, they learn to pass the buck fast…….