He touches his nose to mine (he's recently discovered Eskimo kisses) and I'm instantly awake. We left the blind open a crack last night so we could get some fresh air from the open window and now there's a ray of 6am sun shining through. I convince him to crawl into my bed for a cuddle to delay the inevitable but it's pointless. He's all gangly legs and whispered questions and four-year-old energy. There will be no more sleep.
I've reached the end of the third trimester. My comfortable bed is no longer comfortable. I go to bed early to try to catch up on sleep but I can't settle. My joints scream in protest from the extra weight I'm carrying and my mouth fills with stomach acid if I dare to ditch one of my four pillows and lie lower than a 45-degree angle. I'm caught in the ridiculous cycle of "drink enough water so that I don't get dehydrated and end up with painful Braxton Hicks, but not enough water that I need to get up to pee four times every night" and I'm losing. Rolling over requires deep concentration and momentum and a hope and a prayer. The end of the third trimester is a privilege I don't take lightly. But it is not comfortable.
My eyes are gritty and I try to keep them closed as I shovel coffee grounds into the espresso pot. I turn the stove on and lean against the counter to try to catch three minutes of sleep while the coffee brews. I wake up to a burning smell and realize I forgot to screw the filter and seal onto the pot and instead of filling with beautiful, delicious espresso it's filling with burnt coffee grounds that shoot up from the spout and spark impressively. I shut off the burner and decide the stove isn't safe in my current state. No latte is worth burning down the kitchen.
Everything feels a bit difficult right now. I'm simultaneously wishing it would be over immediately and trying to hold onto every minute because this is the last time I'll ever be this pregnant. It's a weird place to be. A not comfortable place to be.