I woke up a little grumpy this morning, because I didn't get enough sleep. Again.
Pregnant women pee all the time. It's a stereotype, but it's true. Some nights, I'll get up 4 or 5 times to pee, which really screws with what normal people call "sleeping." You may say, "Well, don't drink so much water before you go to bed." To which I'd reply, "WOW! That is a BRILLIANT idea! Thank you for sharing your wisdom with me. Problem solved." (Then I would roll my eyes, because I'd be saying that sarcastically.)
There's science involved, my friend. I have about 50% more blood coursing through me, and this makes my bladder fill up more often. There's also pressure on my bladder from our little bundle of joy, and I just read something about the extra fluid in my legs having something to do with it too.
But I digress.
Our bathroom is two steps from my side of the bed. I can take one step out of bed, pivot, take a half step, and be sitting on the toilet. (New York apartments are tiny, not like what you saw on "Friends.") I've perfected the middle of the night pee, and I've managed to perfect this maneuver to the point where I barely have to wake up to do it. I keep my eyes closed the entire time. (Which reminds me of an unfortunate incident in kindergarten, when a classmate shoved me into a cinderblock wall, splitting my head open- all because I wouldn't open my eyes after a rousing game of "Let's Go to the Bathroom Like Blind People." It was Montessori school, so it was a totally normal game.)
But I digress. Again.
Keeping my eyes closed allows me to hang on to the dreams I was having before the Urge to Go struck me. It makes it easier to get back to sleep, which is really important for pregnant women and humans who are alive. But LAST night, my Sleeping Pee was foiled- nay, sabotaged- by an EMPTY ROLL OF TISSUE! I reached for it, and nothing was there but a cardboard tube.
I swore out loud (a no-no when you're Sleep Peeing), but kept my eyes closed, and felt for a fresh roll under the cabinet. I took out the little spindle, placed the roll on it, went to lock it into place, and...the whole thing dropped on the floor in the total darkness, the toilet paper and spindle rolling away in opposite directions, just out of reach and behind the door.
I swore again. And had to open my eyes.
I felt around for the roll, hit my head on the corner of the open door, knocked my makeup bag into the trashcan in the process, and swore again before finally locating the roly-poly roll of paper and...using it.
I climbed back in bed wide awake, with a burning resentment for the only person who could have done this. Dean had been the last one in the bathroom before bed, I remembered it clearly. He was to blame, and if I was awake, then he should be, too. I leaned close to his sleeping ear, and recreating the voice my mother used when she caught me smoking in the shower in middle school, I said, "Replace. The. Toilet. Paper."
He was a little taken aback, but I felt mildly vindicated as I yanked the covers towards my side, sighed extra heavily, and tried to go back to sleep.
This morning we both woke up grumpy. And then my grumpiness turned to horror, for I had been WRONG.
In my midnight bathroom frustration, I had lost count of how often I'd gone prior to the Toilet Paper Incident. Yes, Dean was the last one to go before bed, but I had already gone 2 or 3 times before the TPI. I was the saboteur. I was She Who Should Not Be Named. I had been (whispers) wrong.
The bed is the best place to be embarrassed, because you can just pull the covers up over your face while you wail your apology at the loved one you wrongly accused. And if you're lucky, the Loved One will accept your "I'm SO SO SORRY," and still make the coffee and take the dog out.
Which is exactly what happened.
We've both learned a valuable lesson from all this. Mine has something to do with jumping to conclusions, and his has something to do with earplugs.
It's a win-win.