Pregnancy is a Disorder

I have a veritable pharmacy in my bed. Since Chris has been living out of hotels in Dayton during the week for the last two months, due to his new job in our future hometown, I have inherited the king bed all for myself. And since I have developed an extremely obnoxious and unbearable case of snoring due to my pregnancy, even when he is home on the weekends, he ends up in the bed down the hall. So, for all intents and purposes, the king bed is mine all mine. And since this is the case, I have chosen to fill it with all the items that have become near and dear to my heart..... my pregnancy survival kit, if you will.

I have the following sundries in my bed with me: tylenol, cough drops, gas relief chewable tablets and pills, palmer's cocoa butter lotion for stretch marks, powder, tums antacids and a box of tissues. In addition to the pharamceutical needs, I have also chosen to include my cell phone, the remote control, a pen and notepad, a water bottle, hair ties and dog biscuits to lure the dogs in to my room at night. Everything is neatly lined up beside me where my husband used to lay.

Why don't I just use the bedside stand, you ask? Well, because since I have commandeered the bedroom, I moved the night stand to the foot of the bed and dragged the spare tv into the room to place on it, against my husband's "sleep hygiene" policy, so that I might be entertained while my child kicks the crap out of me all night. Besides, it's so convenient to have everything right next to me. I don't even have to roll over. And since I'm usually engrossed in an old re-run episode of the Golden Girls or Will and Grace, I have learned to find everything by touch. I don't even have to look to find what I need. It's bliss, really.

So, even though I have all the supplies I need to survive my long, often sleepless, nights, I have come to the conclusion that I am suffering from a disorder. The snoring for one thing could wake the dead. It doesn't wake me of course, but the dead, yes, I'm sure they take issue with it. According to Chris, the dogs are restless all night because of the ogre-like sounds that eminate from the caverns of my body, and we have decided that the baby must surely believe that she was swallowed by a monster.

This past weekend we escaped away to a cottage in the woods in Amish Country to have some R&R before the baby poop hits the fan. Because the weather was so perfect, we left all the windows open and slept amidst cool breezes. Of course, my husband ended up in the bedroom downstairs and left me alone upstairs to inhale anything not nailed down. But he said that as he lay there, he could hear me through his window. "No wonder there's no wildlife around," he says to me over breakfast. "You've scared them all away."

In addition to the snoring problem, I have now acquired an embarrassing appetite. It's not that I gorge food as if I were about to be discovered in a closet clutching a bag of Oreo's, it's more like I'm just always hungry. But I'm trying to control it by being reasonable and making healthy choices. Chris is not helping. He encourages me to eat even when it's not healthy. It's a sweet gesture that comes from a good place but I swear to God if I said a bucket of lard sounded appetizing Chris would run and get me a spoon.

That morning at breakfast in the cottage, Chris made a glorious breakfast for us. And breakfast is not breakfast without bacon. As we argued over who should eat the last piece, each insisting the other take it, Chris says to me, "Honey, I'm just making poop. You're making a baby. You take it." Feeling there is really no way to argue with this logic, I conceded and ate it. Besides, it's useless to argue with a man who wishes to nurture his baby. He doesn't have an umbilical cord, so his only option is to force feed me. It's really sweet, if you think about it.

At any rate, pregnancy is a disorder and symptoms include overeating and uncontrollable snoring. Symptoms also include not being able to bend over in the shower when you drop the soap, a constant re-supplying of toilet paper, an obsession with germs, getting stuck in the couch, an inability to reach and tie your shoes, and apparently, hoarding things in your bed like a muskrat so you don't have to repeatedly get up in search of them.