Or take last night, where I was sitting in calm repose next to one of my cats on the sofa. Suddenly, the entire area smelled like a zoo/aquarium. “What the hell is that smell?” I asked Mr. Squab. Mr. Squab, sitting at the other end of the sofa, did not smell anything. “Oh, my god,” I said, “it is really bad. What the hell is it?” Then I looked down, and saw that the cat was cleaning himself. The nickel dropped. I was smelling his breath. And not just smelling it; being engulfed by it. Jesus tap-dancing Christ, that cat has bad breath – but under normal circumstances it’s only apparent if you actually stick your nose within milimeters of his open mouth. Not for SuperSmellerWoman, though! You leave a bag of trash out in the hallway, its stench will pollute my dreams. You crush a clove of garlic in the house next door, I’ll start craving Italian food. It’s getting ridiculous.
In addition to my increasingly freakish sense of smell, I’m also continuing to enjoy the tyranny of my future child’s appetites. The upshot of this is that, and I’m almost crying as I write this, I can no longer sleep in. Ever. Now, to understand just how much of a tragedy this is, you need to recognize the near-worship I have for the state of sleep. I looooooooooooove sleeping. I love my bed, I love waking up and then going back to sleep, I love taking naps, I just. Love. Sleep. Added to which, as my family can firmly attest, I’m the very polar opposite of a morning person. I don’t fully wake up until about 10 am, regardless of what time I actually got up. I can – or could – easily and happily sleep for 10-11 hours EVERY NIGHT. And sleeping in is my absolute joy. It’s honestly probably what I most look forward to on the weekends: not having to get up at any particular time. I don’t usually sleep in until noon or 1pm anymore, but 10 or 11 in the morning – preferably 11 – is a great time to get up, read the paper, have a leisurely breakfast, etc.
Now before you get all up in my grille, yes, I KNOW that you don’t get to sleep in when you have a baby. I get it, really. And I was completely prepared to spend the next 10 or so years in a state of semi-sleep deprivation. But, you know, I wasn’t prepared for it to start before the baby actually made an appearance. In fact, I was really savoring every moment of sleep, in full awareness of how ephemeral that pleasure would be. But alas, such pleasures are mine no longer. What with the gestational diabetes and Hoss’ complete pissiness if he/she doesn’t eat at the same damn time, every damn day, there can be no sleeping in. I can sometimes manage an extra 30-45 minutes on weekends, but any more than that and I feel nauseated and get high blood sugar readings the entire day. And it’s not just that I have to get up at a certain time – I also have to keep my food intake at very regular intervals, else I risk the wrath of the Hoss. This morning I was maybe 1/2 hour late eating my midmorning snack, and oh, the hunger pangs! Oh, the lassitude! Hoss was all like, dammit, woman! A baby gots to EAT! One cheese stick and a lemonade vitamin water later, all was well.
So anyway, my point is: this pregancy thing is a rip off. Not only did I have to give up my precious snoozing a good 4 months too early, but I have little to no say with regard to my own food consumption. Who do I talk to about the false advertising?
