Trying to sleep last night was an exercise in frustration. It was warm, which normally would be great, but I don't have any maternity jammies that are cool yet (and haven't dug through the summer clothes to find tank tops I don't care about stretching out), so the yoga pants and long sleeved T I was wearing made me sweat, even without blankets. The phantom pains increased, not only with the aching joints I've been dealing with for months, but also a little spot on the front of my pelvis and another just below my left boob. According to Dr. B's former undergrad worker (who's now a Physical Therapy grad student) this is diverted pain from when the baby kicks or punches an internal organ. I guess you can't feel your pancreas, so the pain travels to the end of the nerve and presents itself in an odd spot, like the fourth rib from the bottom on the left side.
But the worst part was Lucy. Or, should I say "Lucia Callas"?
Lucy is a howler. Most of the time she is a very quiet dog, rarely barking, and behaves herself pretty well. But when a siren goes by, she busts out into song. A throaty, rich, LOUD song. "Ahh-ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!"
And last night in our area, there were lots of sirens.
So, from approximately 10:30 until Midnight, I was treated to a performance of Tosca. In my bedroom.
I tried everything. I yelled at her. I pleaded with her. I begged her. I kissed her nose. I stroked her back. I scratched her butt (this normally puts her into a sort of Zen trance, but last night? No dice.) I tickled her snout. I invited her to join me in the big bed.
Nothing worked. She just kept howling.
I shut the window (nearly shutting her nose in it in the process) hoping by reducing the siren noise, she'd lose the compulsion to sing. Nope. Now it was just louder in the bedroom.
Finally, I just rolled over and said a little prayer.
Dear God, please don't let anyone call the cops...