Just breathe

I remember in the midst of teenage-hood sitting in a small bedroom and with my friend Kass hugging various pillows and imagining the day when those pillows would be boys.  We would place our hands delicately on the front and lay our heads against the cool cloth while asking each other what we thought it would be like to fall asleep against the chest of a husband.

It's not what we thought it was, Kass.

Last night as Paul drifted off to dreamland I laid my head on his chest.  I still have a desire to fall asleep listening to the sound of his heart so I've tried many times.  Each time ends the same.  I can't sleep, so I roll over and nestle my back under his arm, absorbing his warmth in the silence of our room.

I think my problem is breathing.  While my initial intention is to listen to a heartbeat, it's slowly overwhelmed by the rise and fall of his chest.  My breathing begins to follow Paul's sleeping pattern.  Relatively short inhales and long, deep exhales.  But my waking breaths are not ready for such intake and I find myself gasping for air when my lungs are so depleted yet still waiting to the unspoken permission to breath that the rise of my husbands chest gives.  His short bursts of air intake aren't long enough for me to recover before another long exhale sideswipes me.

I tell myself to relax and ignore his breathing, but it's never long before I'm hyperventilating again.

Be aside from our lack of coordinated sleep breathing, I sure like that guy.

Today's church activities left me exhausted, and by the time I got home at about four o'clock all I wished for was a nap.  But I had cooking to do.  Lots of cooking.  Potato salad for Memorial day, homemade pizza for dinner.  I was ready to give up, eat a peanut butter sandwich, and just call it a day.  My pregnancy exhaustion was getting the best of me, but that man. . . he took me into the kitchen, told me I was remarkable, and began cutting up potatoes.  He minced pickles, grated cheese, cooked chicken, chopped celery, and other such remarkable things.  When the smell of that potato salad made me heave, he did the honors of tasting it for the proper spice ratio, which alone saved my life.

What a guy!  I think I'll keep him.

I love you, Paul!  Thanks for all your help.