Hey everyone. There is a live show going on in my belly, starring Baby Dub.
She’s got moves like Jagger.
I am so entertained by our daughter. I just want to pull up my shirt and show everybody her dance moves.
I realize this is not socially acceptable.
But it might be a cool party trick. I don’t know. You tell me. Is it going too far if I pull up my shirt at a party (stone sober) and show off my randomly animated belly?
The past few days, the Hubs has had to go to work at what most humans consider an ungodly hour. I can’t bear to send him off into the world without a full stomach, so I haul my tired pregnant butt out of bed at 4:15 am to make him an egg wrap and open up his requisite cans of tuna (so gross). Then I go back upstairs, turn on the alarm for 6 am, and slip back into my slumbers. Lovely.
The problem with this is that I do not get out of bed on my own. I will push the snooze for an hour plus. That’s not even quality sleep, but I want it.
Snooze sleep is brutal. Or I should say that pregnant snooze sleep is brutal. I am so tired that I hardly notice the interruption when the alarm goes off.
And it creates really vivid and awful, memorable dreams.
Over a series for 4-5 snooze-pushes, I dreamt we were robbed the other night. This was a vivid and horrific dream. Allow me to share.
It’s dark. The Hubs and I have just returned home from a trip to the TriCities. Our dogs are for what ever reason hanging out in the front yard, greeting us eagerly. Diesel wants untied. Stella is smiling her nervous, I might have pooped somewhere I shouldn’t have smile. Something is amiss. The front door is open.
“Huh. That’s not good.”
Walking through the front door, I try turning on the lights to get a grip on the situation. They don’t come on. Maybe the power’s out? I fumble my way to the back patio and try the outside light, which comes on. No other lights are coming on, though. So we grope in the dark trying to find lightbulbs. A childhood friend makes a guest appearance at this point, armed with lightbulbs.
Thank you, friend from the 3rd grade, for swinging by!
While we are putting in new lightbulbs, I peer towards where our TV is located, above the fireplace, trying to see if it’s missing. I think I can make it out.
“Looks like our TV is still here, so that’s a good sign.”
The first lightbulb gets screwed in and nope – the TV is gone. Our Wii is still there. The cable box, DVD player and all our speakers are present and accounted for. The TV is missing.
The Hubs is pissed. But baffled.
“They didn’t get that good of a deal. They left the remote and all the cords.”
I scold the dogs.
“You guys were supposed to be guarding the house! You need to pick up your game, puppies.”
I decide if the TV is all that’s missing, we’re lucky. I better survey the scene upstairs though. I’m drawn to Baby Dub’s room, where all of the adorable outfits she’s already accumulating are laid out on the guest bed so that I can go in there and imagine putting her tiny baby arms and legs in these cute freaking ensembles. Yes. I do that.
Her room is trashed. The baby clothes are all gone. The shoes, the hats, the little socks, the onesies, even the baby cowboy boots that were tucked away in the closet – all missing.
At this, I begin to scream.
The dream scream is the worst.
Screaming so hard you hunch over, screaming like you’re in the movie Scream, but no sound is coming out. Why can’t anybody hear me screaming?! I’m up here all by myself in a room that should be full of magical tiny articles of clothing and instead is full of terror. Where is my husband to comfort me? Who steals baby clothes?!
And then I wake up.
Snooze! I shake my fist at you!
Worst. Dream. Ever.
So this morning, after sending the Hubs off to work with a fresh egg wrap and gross stinky tuna, I warily climbed back into bed. I turned on the alarm for 6 am. I closed my eyes and hoped against hope that I wouldn’t have a continuation of that horrible robbery dream.
I barely get settled, and Baby Dub begins to stir.
And by “begins to stir”, I mean, starts break-dancing on my bladder.
Whoa there, sister. Momma wants to get a little extra zzzs. Calm it down.
Karate CHOP! Judo CHOP! OOoooh RyuKen! Round house, kick jab combos.
Baby Dub is crumping like Lil John just told her to back… back… back it up.
Okay I get it, Baby Dub. You’re awake.
Turns out Baby Dub doesn’t like people stealing her crap.