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Sleep, or Something Like It

Candy's Column

Sleep, or Something Like It

“UGGHHHHERRRRRRRRR!”

Mr. Candy wakes up with a start, looks over at me in utter panic.

“What?  What is it?  Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I growl.  “Just rolling over.”

Mr. Candy, who had already mentally packed my suitcase and mapped out the most direct path to the hospital, seems almost pissed that I woke him out of mere discomfort.  I, however, am secretly happy to have woken him up.  And may have even “accidentally” nudged him with my foot to make sure he did.  Welcome to my world, buddy!

Nothing in bed is easy these days.  Not sex (for the sake of my marriage and the lunch you just ate, I’ll refrain from sharing details, but let me just say it is NOT the ménage à trois that men dream of), not general relaxation and certainly not sleep.  There is no longer such a thing as a “comfortable” position (I’m talking about SLEEP, people!), so I settle for “kinda tolerable” as I grab most of the comforter and tuck it under my big belly.  To make matters worse, our cats rule the household — nay, they rule US — so when Marcy joins us and promptly claims half of the bed as her own, we do not reposition her or remove her from the bed like normal people.  No, no, we contort our bodies to accommodate her Fluffy Highness, with Mr. Candy’s knee planted firmly on my rear and my leg dangling from the bed.  As we did last night.

Which explains my lovely mood today.

“MOVE, bitch!  Get out my way!” I screamed at a fellow walker on Santa Monica Boulevard this morning.  Thankfully, the woman obligingly scooted herself and her walker to the side so I could get by.  I’d hate to have to open up a can of pregnant whoop ass on an elderly slowpoke.  But, hey, that’s how we exhausted baby mamas roll.

Based on conversations I’ve had with other ladies in their third trimester, I’m actually lucky to get as much sleep I do, about six hours a night.  However, the quality of sleep is quickly declining and the dreams are getting more off-putting.  My dreams of giving birth to talking 30-pound toddlers have given way to a recurring (and less interesting) one in which I am about to graduate from college, only to realize I don’t have enough credits to graduate.   Like, omigod!   As much as I cherish sleep these days, I am ALWAYS beyond relieved to wake up.  I’ve consulted with world-renowned psychiatrist, Dr. Google, to see what this means.  He claims this dream often accompanies a rite-of-passage in waking life — and that I may not feel “adequately credentialed” for this new phase.

Well, duh.  Kegs, I know how to tap.  But babies…?  I have NO idea how many cups of beer they can pour.

Because sharing is caring, as I tell my kids. (Except my wine. Never my wine.)
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Candy Kirby is the founder of The Laughing Stork and a professional fun-maker who will never stop chasing her lifelong dream: to find the Pomeranian or porn star after whom her parents must have named her. A humor columnist for Disney, Nickelodeon, Scary Mommy, Reductress and Redbook, she also used to be a staff writer for the soap opera, The Bold and the Beautiful, where she penned many scripts featuring prolonged heated stares and countless “Who’s the Daddy?” story lines. Candy lives in Los Angeles with her husband, two young kids and three rescue Persian cats, the latter of whom are the real brains behind this operation (so send all complaints to them).

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