July 29, 2009
Last night I had a very restless sleep, and surprisingly enough it wasn't due to the three pound baby in my belly. Actually, it can be attributed to the one-hundred-fifty pound baby who sleeps right next to me.
Yes, I'm kindly referring to my husband.
Sure he elbowed me square in the nose three time last night, but the real piece-de-resistance? That came at 3:13am when he violently shook me awake saying, "Amy! Amy! Amy!"
I woke up instantly, not sure if Jared was having a minor heart attack or had accidentally pooped the bed--either way, it was obvious that he needed me.
"Amy! Amy!" he continued.
I opened my eyes to find him two inches away from my face, eyelids shut, but somehow looking frantic. "What Jared? What's going on," I demanded?
"It's the middle of the night," he said. "And you're sleeping."
Seriously? Was that it?
Yes. It was.
By the time the words, "It's the middle of the night, and YOU'RE DEAD" had the time to flow off my lips in response, he was rolled over, wrapped in the blanket, sleeping like a man in a coma.
My dream of twin beds? It lives on.