You can't spell 'insomnia' without staying awake

There's a bad case of forgetting how to sleep going around in our new apartment. Sometimes it's me, hunched among the unpacked boxes, staring at a barely cobbled together laptop-monitor combo (iMac is in hospital), aggressively doing nothing about my long to-do list. Other times, it's V padding around on the new carpet, thinking pregnant thoughts, probably feeling queasy while I snore and fart in bed. (I know ... and she loves me!)

We both collapsed at 4 a.m. last night, slipping into the emergency sleep of the defeated insomniac, only to be dragged back into a zombie-like state by the alarm within a few hours. Lately, I've felt like a cold bar of iron in the mornings, as if my entire body gets sore just carrying around the extra 5 pounds I put on last month and can't seem to shake. V drifts from sickness to illness to not-noticing-anything-particularly-wrong to gotta-sit-down-for-a-second.

What's strange is that nothing in our lives is all that momentous, or going wrong. Thanks to some good luck here and there, we're not worried about money, the move is complete, all the trauma of January is starting to recede -- if anything, we should be settling into a perma-nap of Ordinary Time. Instead -- and this is only a theory -- we seem to be spending this month physically stressing out about all the stuff we've had to mentally stress out about, yet endure, since last November. It's like when you have a huge responsibility at work, so you power through the signs of a cold, only to get an even nastier cold the minute it's okay to take a sick day.

In unrelated news, I'm sorely disappointed in mankind's inability to come up with a more attractive design for cribs. Were babies just invented? Let's get on this, people!