Another night, another early a.m. wakeup, moaning and making every effort to break the fingers of the hand that comforts me. “why don’t you get in the shower?”, he mumbled, unable to disguise his extreme desire for me to be anywhere at all but in bed beside him at 3 a.m. moaning (and not in a good way) and squeezing his fingers in a vice. Because I love him, he is still alive this morning. I am the womb that cried wolf; even middle of the night screaming and writhing around doesn’t faze him anymore.
And I am still contracting. Once out of bed, they have subsided from the moaning contractions and move toward the ‘holy crap, I must lean over the counter and breathe deeply so as not to scare the babysitter’ contractions.
I hear TOddlerA doing the Happy Feet dance with Mary in the living room, and all the sudden I want the baby to stay in here for another month or so. I’m not ready for two.