Couch.

Tonight, I’m thinking about hunkering down under a blanket to watch the second half of the Patriots/Jets game on the couch and I’m already giving myself permission to doze, which I never do. I have a pretty strong aversion to sleeping on the couch (at night) and always make it up to bed before that happens. But, I don’t have a TV in the bedroom and I really want to see more of this game, so I’m breaking my personal rules this one time. And as I started planning out my halftime game plan (Ha! See what I did there? Game plan?)I was all of a sudden flooded with memories of the first six weeks of The Who’s life.

No wonder I don’t allow myself to sleep on the couch at night anymore.

The Who and I slept together there on our reclining couch every night, partly because he refused to be put down and partly because I couldn’t lie comfortably in bed until my OB snipped out my “dissolvable” stitches, relieving my 6-weeks-long suffering below the belt. The routine during that time was so consistent and so regular that I never imagined I’d forget it, but I did — until tonight. Around 10, m* would go up to bed, but not before settling The Who and I on the couch. I wore — nearly every moment of those 6 weeks —  a leopard-print tube tup (Don’t judge; tube tops = easy nursing) and a blue Cape Cod hoodie. Every night, I’d tuck a small square pillow behind my neck, held in place by the hood of my sweatshirt. Then, I’d wrap the Snoogle around my waist, tuck a swaddled Who into the crook of it, and try to sleep. For, y’know, 7 minutes. Until The Who stirred to be nursed the rest of the goddamn night.

I remember hobbling down the length of the house to the bathroom, popping The Who in his carseat, stationed just outside the bathroom door, where he would w a i l until I picked him up again, snagged a Pop Tart on my way through the kitchen, and got us resettled on the couch, boob in mouth. Six weeks. 42 nights.

It’s so good not to be in that place anymore. So good to feel like I can tuck under a blanket and watch uninterrupted football, comfortably dozing while my big, almost-three-year old snoozes independently in his crib for the next 8 hours, maybe more.

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