The Worst Night

So, yesterday might have been The Greatest Day, but last night was The Worst Night. Not because Himself showed up, but even him showing up didn't negate the sheer agony of the night.

In an effort to say, "I may have called you on hormonal rampages during the last four weeks, but I really can do something," I set out to cook dinner for Himself and Son last night.

The Problem: I haven't cooked a meal since early May - at, oh, about 22 weeks. It is MUCH easier to slave over a hot stove when you are mid-second trimester, I realized. I also have ZERO desire for food. ZERO. Meaning cooking just isn't the passionate endeavor it usually is. And, Himself and Son were beat. So, while I'm sure the Chicken Teriyaki and Fried Rice were excellent, we did no more than pick at the food. I had three little pieces of chopped chicken and some orange juice. Two food groups. It was all I could handle. And ... I didn't realize how hard it is to serve a meal to a family of three when one doesn't have a dining room set, let alone a dining room (I am so visiting Ikea this weekend...).

In an effort to convince myself that my sleeplessness was a matter of me sleeping alone in a strange environment the last couple of nights, I went to bed sans another Tylenol PM (plus, the darn think worked so well the night before, I was sleepy until noon yesterday).

The Problem: My great "Eureaka!" moment of how to sleep in relative comfort while pregnant involves several pillows and takes up most of the bed. I failed to realize this would NOT work when Himself arrived with an understandable need to share the bed with me. It was also alarmingly hot in the Hobbit Hole last night, meaning Himself was in no mood to substitute for my back pillow by lying against me. We spent all night tossing and turning, trying not to get to close to each other and smother each other in body heat (pregnancy has definitely made me hot in one way :), trying not to fall out of our respective sides of the bed, as I moved myself and my army of pillows to one edge and Himself clung valiantly to the other edge in an effort to remain mum on the number of "objects" I had in bed with me, while trying desparately not to fall out of bed himself.

And the dog barked. The upstairs neighbors have an ankle-biter dog and a hoarde of grandchildren, whose parents don't seem to believe in bedtimes. Between the dog and the kids, one couldn't sleep even if it was cool and there were no baby bumps or pillow mountains in the way. About 5:30 a.m., when the cool breezes of morning began to blow, the dog and children were mostly asleep and I had given up on being comfortable, Himself rolled over, gathered me up and held me.

I slept for a blissful 90 minutes. The Worst Night was over.