Yep, one of the benefits of being pregnant is the ability to burst into tears at just about any moment. Seriously, crummy commercials make me cry these days. So this morning, around 5:45 H starts bawling from his crib. Jeremy rolls over and asks if I’m awake (duh) and then asks what time it is. A brief history – I made us get rid of the alarm clock because
a. why do we need an alarm clock? We have a human alarm clock right next door
b. due to the inordinate amount of times I wake up during the night, I found the giant LCD time in my face to be a major deterrent in my ability to fall back asleep.
So the digital alarm clock got booted. And we have a very pretty bedside clock that’s impossible to tell what time it is unless you turn on the light.
SO. Here we are, we both know it’s way earlier than 7, which is when H usually wakes up, but after turning on the lamp and discovering that it’s 5:45 AM and on a snowy morning no less, well, we both rolled over and moaned and wished him back to sleep. I believe Jeremy said “I don’t want to get up at 5:45 in the morning.” Which was not a weird thing to say and after it became apparent that this kid was AWAKE, he got up. Bless his heart.
I lay in bed listening to them puttering around the kitchen, one big crash followed by a short crying spell, and the inevitable smell of pancakes and coffee. I tried to go back to sleep but pregnancy brain is not very forgiving and lying there, I thought about what’s to come and the great unknowns that having two kids will bring about and how I’m not scared of the birth, but what comes after (no, not the afterbirth) I mean, what I remember about after Harry being born was how perfect everything seemed (oh pregnancy brain, how funny you are). But really, our apartment was warm and quiet and it was just the three of us getting to know each other and sleeping and moving slow and friends and family coming to visit and all those crazy nerves about every little thing. And there I am, at 6am making myself a nervous wreck about things I can’t control and I get the sudden need for a hug.
Weren’t they surprised to see me awake and all nervous looking. And I got my hug and some vague sleepy reassurances that everything would be okay and maybe I should go back to bed, which I did, bringing with me a month old New Yorker and lay there reading this article written by Joyce Carol Oates about her experience of her husband dying and what a fantastic person he was and how much she loved him and was going to miss him. Good grief. It’s a lovely article but there should be a warning label on it. Do not read this if you don’t feel like weeping. I head back out to the dining room boo-hooing my brains out. I needed to hug my man. And I needed to tell him how much I appreciate all the things he does for us and how he’s the best person I know and I know that I’m borderline impossible to live with right now, but someday I’ll go back to being my regular old snarky self and how much I love him for his patience and goodness and humor and did I mention patience. Yep, just what every semi exhausted man wants to hear from his pregnant wife at 630 in the morning.
So here’s another hats off to those exceptional men in our lives. The ones we choose to make a life with and who we love and who make us crazy to the point of wondering if maybe we weren’t slipped something when deciding to hitch ourselves to this ride. The ride is so worth it. I can’t imagine anything more fun.