The conscientious mother has to recognize that all previously occurring sleep positions have now been deemed abusive due to the effect they have on the baby, so therefore, a new way of sleeping has to be developed so as to avoid harming the baby. Most of pregnancy for me has been spent trying to avoid harming the baby, which extends from anything to denying myself coffee and lunchmeat to NOT tripping and falling over the cat when he darts out in the middle-of-the-night walk to the bathroom in an attempt to sabotage the pregnancy.
Step One. Get up and eliminate.
To clarify this means “urinate,” but apparently when you’re pregnant and the nurses are asking you monthly to pee in a cup the size of a film container, you are told to “eliminate” the urine from your bladder. Fine with me, but I just thought I’d clarify.
Step Two. Turn on the air conditioner.
In my extremely frugal mind I tend to prolong the turning on of the air conditioner in an effort to control the amount of cash I am forced to pay the utility company each month. I tell myself I am being “earth-friendly” as it has become the new fad to be “green” and convincing myself of this makes me feel like I’m hip instead of miserably hot. This doesn’t always work out, especially when it’s 90 degrees and sweltering and I’m parked on the itchy, back-breaking couch having difficulty breathing while slowly fading in and out of consciousness for the entire afternoon. At any rate, when you’ve almost reached the Point of No Return while trying to sleep with a sweaty back – it’s time to surrender.
Step Three. Shove your husband to the other side of the bed.
This may or may not require some dragging and/or pinching to be successfully persuasive. For some reason my endless tossing and turning seems to create a black hole in the middle of our mattress, which inevitably starts to draw my husband toward it. Cuddling “spoon-style” with his arm wrapped around my body and me smiling myself to sleep only occurs on commercials for sleeping medication, and since these are a no-no during the nine-month stretch, so is this ridiculous picture of romantic bliss. It’s bad enough trying to find a position on my own, let alone having a whole-body protrusion attaching itself to the length of myself, which brings me to the next step…
Step Four. Enter the Body Pillow.
I ended up buying the Body Pillow. It cost me 7.99 at Meijer and on our limited (read: “In the red”) budget, I decided to treat myself (thanks to my husband’s encouragement). Little does he know, it mostly serves as a heat shield between me and the unfathomably hot temperature that consumes his body whenever he hits REM sleep. I am also better able to mold, flip, fold and tuck Mr. Body Pillow to my position of comfort without hearing any exclamations of pain or annoyance.
Step Five. Stop dreaming about Bob Saget.
This step I have no directions for because I haven’t quite been able to master this myself. Bob Saget has continuously shown up in my dreams throughout my pregnancy. It’s not usually a negative experience; typically he takes the fatherly role of neat and orderly Danny Tanner, who often times reassures me when I have my panic attacks concerning being completely incompetent at handling a newborn, but it’s still rather disturbing to me the regularity with which he frequents my dreams, and I’d prefer to remove him if I knew how. So any opinions or advice on this is welcome.
Step Six. Eliminate again.
Step Seven. Feed the cats so they don’t stomp on your baby belly at the exact moment when you are on the verge of falling off into BobSagetLand.
Step Eight. Lay on your side.
Lay down on your side, find Mr. Body Pillow and wedge him where you need it most (ahem), and make sure you’ve set the pillow cold-side up. Let the air kick in and I promise you, as soon as that magical machine hits 72, you’ll be out like a light bulb (a light bulb that turns on whenever it has to pee.)