Count on Me

Why am I up in the middle of the night counting Braxton Hicks contractions when I should be counting sheep? Perhaps because they are organizing at 5 minute intervals!

I'll be 36 weeks this weekend and yet I am excited about a slim slight not-even-really-possible labor that I don't even want to happen until at least next week, when at 37 weeks I can deliver in the comfort of a birthing center.

Ah, but that's what the sweet anticipation of holding a newborn will do to an otherwise logical mind.

So, rather than take a Benadryl and see how I feel in the morning, I'm up in the middle of the night dreaming of ten little fingers and ten little toes; two awakening eyes and a little pug nose. I am dreaming of holding the baby and feeling his spine -- a string of pearls -- under a layer of velvet skin; of nursing him and staring at him, of sleeping and waking with him, and of course, of smelling his head and internalizing the reality that he is nestled in my arms.

If I had a magic pill that would let me sleep deeply and soundly from now until 7 a.m. I'm not sure if I would take it. Nope. There's a part of me that would rather be up dreaming of our time to come ... the time that waits just around the corner.

*Yawn*

I think the Braxton Hicks are slowing now. Hmmm ... Maybe I can get back in bed and rest my head just so by tucking a pillow under it, and then one in between my knees, another under my belly, and yet another between my ankles. Then maybe, just maybe, I'll get comfortable enough to quiet my mind and slip from wakefulness to dreamland where, for now, I can hold the child I carry in my belly, in my arms.

And then I'll be rested for our journey together -- whenever it may come. Whether now or later, you can count on me ... sleep or no sleep ... to be anticipating your arrival with open arms and heart.

Good night, sweet babe, and hold tight. Read more!

A poem

Why am I not in bed?

Why am I not in bed
since Wesley has rested his head?
Why am I not asleep
now that I don't hear a peep?

Why aren't my eyes shut tight
now that Wesley has said good night?
Why am I not dreaming
now that Wesley is no longer screaming?

Perhaps because the tranquility
I find in being with me
is worth the price that I will pay
as I drink coffee throughout the next day.

Of course, come night, I'll take my Tums
and it'll ease the internal drums
and then I'll settle in to bed
and welcome dreams into my head.

And just as I'm about to drift
to the place where time passes swift
I'll sit up and scream and shout
as I work the leg cramps out.

So no wonder I sit and type
instead of saying good night.
For the rest that I would gain
comes from a road paved with pain.

And if you see a way to break
the cycle of symptoms, please take
the time to leave a comment
just don't ask me not to vent. Read more!

Sleepless in utero

Insomnia,
In love,
Inside

I wake up at night for at least two hours, and the fatigue is starting to show in my eyes.

Every night when my internal alarm clock kicks me out of sleep at 2 a.m., I toss and turn and try to find just the right position, all while trying not to wake up Patrick. I stop and listen, and can tell by the rhythm of his breath that our mattress set was well worth every penny, so I continue to toss and turn. I stuff and re-stuff the pillows around me and rub my feet together for comfort, over and over again ... while he sleeps on.

Then, just when I think I've found the perfect position, our 20-week old baby starts to do her/his own tossing and turning. While I'm sure her/his mattress is supportive and well worth every pound I put on to supply it, it's not so perfect that I don't feel the child's little moves here and there.

So I lie in the bed with my hands placed on my uterus and dream of the day or night the child inside is delivered to my arms and laid upon my chest where s/he'll nuzzle and hear for the first time my heart beat from this side of life.

I recently received some new insight into what that heartbeat is like:

A man, who didn't have such a loving mother when he was six months old, regressed through therapy in order to accept nurturing messages from an "ideal mom," a role player. He laid his head upon her chest. Was silent. And then wept. The bearded man talked about his ideal mother's heartbeat and the resonance of her voice as he listened with his ear to her body.

I cried.

He was doing his own "work," and receiving a much-delayed gift: A mother's love and promise of protection. At the same time, I received a gift: The gift of hearing the words that infants can't say; That my infant won't say ... but will feel.

"I feel safe. I feel loved."

So at night when I'm awake and the child inside of me is awake, we toss and turn and get comfortable with each other, and in my mind I hold the child. And I tell the child that s/he is safe and loved. And that s/he'll feel that way long after the mattress I supply for her/him now is gone.

I already look forward to tonight's early-morning connection with the child inside. And to the time when instead of waking up for two hours every night, I wake up every two hours throughout the night.

And to the mornings, when I look in the mirror and see that the fatigue is showing in my eyes -- along with a sparkle.
Read more!