Right now, if someone gave me the choice between a good night's sleep and having Big Dave, Big Dave would probably win out, but I would think long and hard about the choice first.
Baby Big has decided he/she will remain active all day and all night long, giving me no peace. If it's not the baby's constant movement keeping me up, it's the 3,000 trips to the bathroom, the 3-4 snack attacks in the middle of the night, or the soul-searing, gut wrenching heatburn.
When I finally drag myself out of bed in the morning, I am greeted by a smiling, well-rested Big Dave, who cheerfully asks me if I slept well. I attempt a snarl, a glare, some kind of facial expression to signify my displeasure, but all I can usually manage is a snort, followed by a glazed stare from under half raised eyelids.
The father of this child then smiles, hugs me, then says, "Baby Big giving you trouble again? Well, that's all part of the process, isn't it?"
Any man who can say that to a non-caffenated, sleep-deprived, swollen-footed, achy pregnant woman is a brave man. Smart, no. But brave indeed.
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