It's after midnight and I can't sleep, which is unusual because when I'm pregnant, sleeping is what I do most and best. I crash at night like I've been hit by a tranquilizer dart meant for a bull elephant.
I don't know if it's because of the time change or fear of dreaming about dead babies or just that Pepsi I had at 8:30, but I'm wide awake picking the bones of the roasted chicken my mom brought over for dinner (thanks Mom!).
It is kind of nice, the house is quiet and there are no chores to be done and I can just sit here on the sofa in peace. The baby is kicking and I'm trying to play this little game with him that I did with Alex, where he'll push out a spot, and I'll poke it back in, and he's supposed to push it back out again. Alex would play this game for ages while in utero, but this baby seems to be anti-social. If he feels any pressure at all on my tummy, he stops moving entirely. John only just felt the baby move on Monday and I had to eat a dozen sour gummy worms to hype him up enough to wiggle around while John sat patiently with his hand on my belly. And even then, the kicking was unimpressive. And don't get me wrong, this guy is a kicker. He's kicked me so hard that I've actually yelped in pain. But John was only able to feel a little bit of a wiggle. He was satisified, but I feel like now he doesn't believe me when I tell him I'm being abused by our youngest child.
My eyes are finally getting a little blurry, so I'm off to bed again, hoping to fall asleep and have happy dreams. Good night!
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