I realized last night that much of my suffering is self-imposed. No, I didn’t actually give myself bronchitis. And I’m a little bit sure Hunky Hubby had something to do with my pregnant status due to the fact that I was barren before I ever met him.
What I’m talking about is the suffering within the suffering. Really, my illness and discomfort are only surface conditions to a deeper problem these days: extreme sleep deprivation. Before bronchitis and the all-nighter cough/convulsions, there was baby-on-the-bladder syndrome. But more telling was my obsession with Said Syndrome. If I wasn’t laying in bed stressing about how long it had been since my last potty break, I was dreaming within my dreams about going to the frickin’ bathroom. No wonder I get up several times in the hour to go a teaspoon at a time.
Last night was no different with my cough. I was prescribed a powerful pregnancy-approved cough medicine by my doc (can you say VICODIN), which zonked me out for two glorious hours that afternoon. I chirpily called Jamie at work afterwards, belting out an off-key rendition of “It’s a Whole New World!” and the fog was lifted.
Until last night when I had my usual wake-up at 2 a.m. I took a second dose of my medication, which should have conked me out immediately. But I somehow got it into this obsessed little mind of mine that my water was breaking due to some minor errr…leakage. Now, most people would have just blown it off and gone back to bed to rest up but nooooo, I had to spend the rest of the night fretting that I WAS GOING INTO LABOR. NOW. WHILE I WAS SICK. AND SOOOOO SLEEP DEPRIVED. Yes, the inner workings of an irrational mind.
Jamie tries to help but as we all know, men can’t possibly grasp estrogen-driven irrationalities. After dinner the other night when I should have been resting, I simply had to do the dishes. The thought of waking up to a dirty kitchen was no less serious than if the earth ceased to spin on its axis.
Jamie was passed out on the couch after a particularly rough day at work and must have felt guilty because he called out to me:
“Hey, Amber. Why don’t you come sit down and let me do those later.”
“Must. Clean. Right. Now.”
“I’ll tell you what: next week, let’s just use all paper plates.”
“Let me see: this means you’re offering to be on dish duty next week.”
“Gee, how’d you guess? “
Kudos to the poor man for even trying. 
I'm a Canadian-born mom of two, former Denver Post columnist, family travel writer, editor of MileHighMamas.com and 9News contributor. Expert on all things Utah, Denver, family and travel. Lover of laughter and life. Happily married to a man obsessed with growing The Great Pumpkin. 