Alas, 2am Is Not 4am.

For almost a week now, I've been routinely waking at 4 in the morning. Or rather, waking at 3:30 and finally convincing myself to get out of bed at 4.

Just as I suspect the new trend will stick around, I find myself awake at 2am, having only managed a meager 30 minutes of sleep while nursing Severus. To say that I'm exhausted is so cliche' at this stage of pregnancy {and by "pregnancy" I mean "life"}, but the synonyms do not adequately convey just how kaput, wearied, dead tired and enervated I truly am, and so I'll stick with the standby;

I am exhausted.

My patience is thin. My motivation fluctuates incessantly - one moment I'm half dressed and running out the door, the next the desire to leave has waned to nothing. My body aches, from the uncomfortable contractions, the rolling back pain, the Charlie horses... even the tips of my toes tingle with soreness. 

But, I suppose it's just that time.

This part, I never forget. I may eventually forget the ferocity of morning sickness, the round ligament pain, the stuffy nose, but this? The third trimester and every ounce of its glory? Never. These long hours awake, even in varying states of delirium, are enough to recall vividly.

I remember when I was pregnant with Samara, a few weeks further along than I am now, I woke at my usual third trimester time and just wandered from room to room in that small basement apartment that always felt more like a basement and less like an apartment. I went into Samara's nursery and ran my fingers over all the things the "Must Have" lists told me I must have {and she didn't use} and sat on the floor holding one of her stuffed animals, and suddenly wept.

It was then that the year I'd had caught up with me, in January her father and I had started dating, in July we were married, and in December, there I sat heavily pregnant with what was to be our only child together. The weight of my misery crashed over me, I hated being there, I knew I would eventually come to hate being with him, and what kind of mother would I make? It was a dramatic scene. 

J. slept like a rock, before my wandering and ultimate breakdown commenced, I had put in the Sarah McLachlan album that would become the soundtrack to Samara's first year of life, and with each chord softly playing from the living room, I cried harder. 

Three Afterglow rotations later, I finally peeled myself from the floor and fell asleep. We all blamed hormones the next day, crazy pregnant woman, and I was so disheartened I never spoke of it again. Until now, that is. 

I'm grateful that my third trimesters, though entirely familiar, are so very different now. Sure, I still wake at my usual third trimester time, and may even suddenly begin to bawl, but the feelings behind those instances are the complete opposite of what I'd experienced that night.

Yorick would be here. Instead of feeling T. violently kicking at my insides, I would be recovering from surgery with a newborn in my arms whose name very likely would not have been Yorick. I think about that a lot, especially now in the month he was due. And sometimes I sit, heavily pregnant with what will be our last child, and I cry for the son I lost. 

But even then, there is no devastation wracking my soul, just a raw, pitiful and deep sadness, an ache for the what might have beens. Because I know that I will wake up in the morning, and I will tell my husband how I sat here, ate an orange, and cried because I miss the son I will never get to know, and he won't disregard my feelings. I know that I'll wake to at least one of my three sons in my bed, and my daughter on my mind. And I know that in just a few short weeks, we'll be welcoming our last child into our family and my life will be that much more blessed because of him and the star sweeper before him. 

Unlike that night almost ten years ago, I have hope that everything will be just fine. As the third trimester starts to close and birthing my son looms ever so near, I can't sincerely complain about the exhaustion. These hours of reflection and quiet music will always be ones that I appreciate, no matter how seemingly inconvenient they are, and will hopefully remain etched in my memory. 

Because let's face it, soon I'll have five children who steal my food, my gadgets, my beloved pens, and my sanity - I'm going to need something of my own to hang on to.