Sleeping at night has reached its peak: near impossible proportions of achievement thanks to some delicately cruel combinations rearing their ugly heads. I should take great solace that this is the last pregnancy for ole Asher Mills...enjoy it while I can, blah blah. We sure as heck aren't going for no. 4, in case any of you are wondering. DONE. But it was icing on the cake to learn I gained SEVEN POUNDS (in five weeks) since my last appointment yesterday. Guess I should lay off the peanut butter cups.

A weak bladder, a form-tackling-of-the-organs prone baby, and beyond throbbing muscles. Everywhere. Did I mention my back hurts? Throw in a little burning of the esophagus just for good time's sake after my latest mexican craving, and I can kiss the night goodbye. I'm up for a party that will put my all night college overhaul sessions from the days of yore to shame.

I woke four times alone the other night, just to waddle to the loo. I shifted slowly out of my sit-and-sleep-because-of-reflux position, and I was lucky, once again, just to make it on time. I almost pulled an oops- my-water-broke just for Jamin in the middle of the bathroom floor. I roll over on my side, and baby mills 3 finds the exact spot where the most pressure is being exerted, only to compliment it with a jabbing of its bony limbs. I guess I should look at it like an internal pressure point massage. Awesome.

I think I may spend the remainder of this pregnancy in bed. I can hire someone to come and roll me around in my pile of misery. They can sponge bathe me. The pinnacle of utmost degrading laziness when executed by choice. Maybe my mom can keep an eye on the kids. I can ring a little bell and someone can bring me my next dosage of double fudge brownie ice cream (topped with whipped cream) while they rub my feet and check my walrus rolls for sores. Digression.

My situation is merely complicated by the fact that, in sleep, Jamin morphs into a circus performer where he wrestles man eating pythons and crocodiles. I lull myself into the delicate balance of consciousness and the oh so desired lala land of REM, when the hubs decides its time to kick his act into high gear. He tackles his latest predator, sometimes accomplishing complete turns in the bed. I'm quite impressed with his level of coordination even in sleep. He's got skills, I must say. He even yells. I'm lucky if that isn't accompanied by sudden outbursts of stifled snorts and snores. Doesn't really help with the sleeping status. Sometimes I wonder if his nighttime aggression are his fantasies of murdering me. Wouldn't blame him.

I prop, I plop, I roll, I moan. Nothing helps. The fluffing of pillows, the changing of positions, and the awkward shifting of belly to body ratios...I'm in big trouble. I think these muscles may be permanently stretched. FOREVER. I have two more months. Technically, ten weeks. I find myself seeing how often I can cheat by lying flat on my back, until some part of my body falls asleep and I come to my senses, realizing that my baby is missing a vital amount of blood supply. Oops.

Of course I complained like this to my OB. He merely nodded his head and chuckled a bit, explaining that because I never recovered from nursing Emerson and went right back into prego mode again, my body is like that of saran wrap attempting to hold up its third bowling ball. Never retracting.

Stretched ligaments to the max...Check.

Ashley looks like an evolving gorilla when standing naked in front of the mirror...Check.

Whiney blog no. 5554...check.

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