ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

As each week of my pregnancy passes by, I feel like I have become qualified as an expert in its passing - and therefore - should never have to experience any of its symptoms again. So I find myself shocked when yet again I sit down to dinner and and the insides of my stomach feel like they are trying to trade places. We tried Golden India last night, a restaurant really close to our house, and we were very excited to find that the food was just as yummy as our favorite Indian place in LA. Sadly the chicken tikka masala nearly sent me sprinting for the bathoom, but a Sprite finally got my stomach under control.

We moved to town on Sunday, and Caleb has been frothing at the bit to get settled, but with no moving van here, there is so much he can do. But we're always supposed to be doing something. And then there is me. Walking up the stairs feels like mile 20 of the marathon. 3 PM usually finds me asleep on whatever surface will hold me. He says he understands that I need to sleep - and don't get me wrong, I don't think I could have married a more supportive partner and father to be - but I don't think he really believes just how tired I am, that the naps are just a way to get out of running to Target or going to the DMV.

Well, the latter part might be true.

I slept for 12 hours last night, so my brain took the opportunity to offer up a kind of David Lynch highlight reel. A friend of mine in his 40s was the star - he was trapped in some gothic New York apartment building like the Dakota where he had to defend his sanity to a clearly deranged panel of "doctors." It felt a whole lot creepier dreaming it then writing it down now - but in the dream, the paranoia and claustrophobia was just overwhelming. My friend managed to find a way to escape at the basement level of the building that now looked suspiciously like my childhood church. I'm gonna try not to read too much into that.