I am up at 4 a.m., thanks to a lingering cold complete with aching throat, clogged ears, and nagging cough that rears its head every time I lie down. Since sleep eludes, I may as well do what the kids don't give me time for during their waking hours - write a little.
Doesn't help that their waking hours have been so angst-filled lately. The viral nuisance plaguing me at present hit them first, beginning with Peanut two weeks ago, and though symptoms were quick to dissolve, their energy levels are still low. Peanut has been voluntarily napping every day, something he hasn't done for months and often without any warning - I simply realize suddenly that I haven't seen him for a while, and a quick search reveals a shock of curly hair or underoo-clad rear end peeking out from underneath a pile of pillows on my bed. On Saturday MRB had a panicked hunt while I was running errands, and found that he had squeezed himself into a nest formed by stuffing a sleeping bag into the top of the Little Tykes playset in the playroom, out cold. Oh, for the days when sleep was so easily achieved!
Deuce's convalescence has been much less pleasant. His happy moments have become short and far between - an hour or two, perhaps, of perkiness, sandwiched between long episodes of being my constant, miserably vocal shadow. He steadfastly resists distraction, and wants only to be held and to nurse - both of which are difficult for me at this point in pregnancy and preclude any possibility of doing anything useful. I could possibly have more sympathy for him were he still exhibiting symptoms of illness, but my general tendency to give my kids the benefit of the doubt when they cry is wearing thin when I have so few reserves myself. Fortunately he is sleeping well tonight, for the first time in the last 72 hours. UNfortunately how well he sleeps seems to have no correlation to his mood upon waking, so I cannot necessarily hope for an easy morning. I want my happy baby back.
Pregnancy is swinging along, par for the course in my usual fashion - measuring large, and fielding strangers' inquiries about whether I'm due "any day now" with somewhat less humor than I've had in the past. My OB is beginning to be squirrely about induction, chirping cheerily that he has no problem doing it at forty weeks "if my cervix is favorable". Since a favorable 40-week cervix would not be in any universe consistent with my history, this does not please me, although I suppose it should, indicating as it does a doctor with a more-or-less hands-off approach, which would have thrilled me in previous pregnancies. When I press him for a hard-and-fast deadline he says only that he "doesn't like" going past 41 weeks, but "as long as my fluid levels are good..." None of which is reassuring. He keeps telling me, with irritating smug confidence, that he has tricks to get things going on time; he is clearly unacquainted with my uterus. I think I can safely predict an April birthdate at this point, though nobody would be happier than I to be proven wrong.
Well, being upright for a while has allowed my head to drain; I suppose it is time for another Vick's-reeking, toss-and-turn session on the couch - my current abode, as it allows me to prop myself up at a better angle than in bed. Also because MRB's defining symptom of the viral beast is to snore all night long.
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