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March 20, 2002

I can't sleep. It might have something to do with the 2-hour nap I took today.

Look, I'm trying to get off the naps. I would be off them, honestly, except that Quinn needs my help sometimes.

See, Quinn usually takes a long morning and a long afternoon nap. I put her down for these Big Naps in my bed because she seems to sleep longer in there during the day. I don't know if it's because our bedroom is darker than hers, or if our bed is more comfortable than her crib, or what. But if we're going to be home and she's approaching one of the Big Naps, I put her there and she konks right out, and stays out for a few hours.

Except that sometimes she needs a tiny bit of help falling asleep. If we've been out shopping or visiting, she has trouble settling down. I think that what's happening when she's whining and crying and alternately sucking frantically on her pacifier and launching it across the room is that she is having flashbacks. Flashbacks to the shoe department at Kohl's. Flashbacks to the BabyGap at Woodfield. Flashbacks to the Mommy Mafia gathering with Colleen, Sue and Kim (and their five children). All of these flashbacks can be very traumatic for such a little bunny, and to relive these chaotic scenes again and again and again can be unsettling.

So I lay down with her. And I help her go to sleep. And by the time she drowses off, a nap sounds pretty good to me, too.

So I didn't plan on taking a nap today. Or yesterday. But it was the flashbacks. The sorrowful, sorrowful flashbacks. I mean, the girl needed help. She'd been through 45 minutes of the Gymboree class. There was a lot of soothing to be done.

Which is why I'm awake at 12:53 a.m. and writing this.

I was lying in bed just now, trying to sleep, but the sounds of Andy's snoring kept me awake. Not that it's a bad snore. He sounds like a monster. But not a bad monster. A friendly, reasonable monster. But no one can sleep with a monster in her ear. So I am here. At my desk.

I'd like to have some cereal.

But I turned myself in at Weight Watchers last week.

When I weighed in for the first time, it marked the occasion of the first time I have looked at a scale in over a year. That's right. For my entire pregnancy, I didn't look at the reading on the scale once. I'd step up and gaze at the birth control chart that hung on the wall next to the scale until it was over. The nurse knew not to tell me the number; instead, she just told me how much or if I'd gained. I didn't need any old number burning a hole in my brain, never to be forgotten.

But last week, I had to look. I stepped up on the scale and looked fearfully at the little screen, and when the number appeared, I almost FELL DOWN AND WEPT. Because that number, oh it was big. Big and wrong. The lady weighing me was handing me pamphlets and trying to hurry me out so the next person could weigh in, but I was transfixed by the hateful sight of my WEIGHT ON THE SCREEN, which is what I THOUGHT CARS WEIGHED, but I guess not, because it was ME ON THE SCALE and not a VOLKSWAGEN JETTA.

So now I'm counting points and eating raisins. And wondering who on God's green Earth invented the following, then made them available to the general public:

• Any of that bitch Dolly Madison's wares, most notably yellow Zingers
• Fettucini Alfredo
• Chocolate milk chugs (chocolate shake flavor)
• Ho-ho's
• Quarter Pounders w/ cheese
• Pepsi
• Chips Ahoy!
• Cake
• Doughnuts
• Cereal

God, I have to stop or I'm going to be at 7-11 in ten minutes, wearing an old maternity shirt and NIU boxers (no shoes), shopping with a basket over my wrist as I try to look as if I'm headed for some sort of clambake that demands sugary, cake-y fortification.

I think I have carpal tunnel.

Whenever I say that phrase in my head, I think of how much it sounds like Marco Polo.

"Carpal!"

"Tunnel!"

"Carpal!"

"Tunnel!"

God, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm inflicting this insomnia on you. You don't deserve it. What have you ever done? You probably don't have to lose hundreds of pounds to fit into a pair of jeans from the damn Gap. You probably don't care if you never, ever again savor the sweet taste of Cocoa Krispies floating in a bowl of hearty 2% milk.

Do you think I should edit this entry? __Y __N.

I'm going to look for some web sites on pedicures. You--out there--as you were.