"But, Honey, it's only 8:30 in the evening!"

"Do I look like I care? I need bed, now!"

It's been getting worse and worse, until last night, in the middle of Kmart, when I announced that bedtime was once again imminent, and Eric decided to put his foot down. "It's only 7:30. You are not going to bed this early!"

"I can't help it," I mumbled around yawns that couldn't be stifled. "It's not too early if I can't even stand up."

He continued to insist that I stay awake, and I continued to yawn and whine my way up to the cash register, where the cashier listened to the argument and weighed in on the side of reason. "Not too early at all," she said. "I'm planning on going to bed when I get home, myself."

"Thank you!" I shot a look of sleepy triumph at my outnumbered husband. "And I'm pregnant! I need sleep!" It felt like a "Get out of jail free" card; the little one inside of me had spoken his demands, and his opinion was the only one that mattered. Eric resigned himself to yet another evening of solo video gaming - which was probably what he would have been doing anyway, regardless of whether I was yawning at the television or snoring blissfully in the next room.

Perhaps my increasingly early bedtimes are a result of the oddity that preceded it: I've become extremely restless in the morning, unable to sleep past six or six-thirty. I've been getting out of bed and padding around the apartment in silence, fixing Eric's breakfasts and checking email (I'm never going to catch up; it's a foregone conclusion). The mornings are peaceful, so I haven't minded the time alone...until last night. My body woke me up at two-thirty and declared that it was awake for the duration. I moaned, tried closing my eyes and covering my head with the blankets, but it was no use. I stared at the clock on my bedside table for a full thirty minutes before I was able to nod off again, and it was a restless sleep that I achieved for the next three hours, at which point I gave up.

Maybe I'm just getting used to what life will be like for the next couple of years...

I've had only fleeting symptoms, otherwise. Nausea comes and goes, so I've begun wearing sea-bands at work to keep from giving myself away. (As far as observant coworkers know, the bands are for carpal tunnel syndrome - another false illness added to my growing collection.) My breasts feel as if somebody has been punching me in the chest; "sensitive" doesn't begin to describe it. Last night, I had to actually get up in the middle of the night to put on a bra. Still, I'm not experiencing anything too strange at this point. I'm sure that this is a trend that won't continue for long.

I narrowly missed getting sucked into the vortex a minute ago, when I asked Mr. Skittish whether he had been allowing patrons to print on the color printer for free. Yesterday, during my solo shift, I had my head ripped off by one man when I tried to charge him for what he claimed Mr. Skittish had claimed was for no charge. I only wanted to clarify whether a new policy had been enacted without my knowledge; Mr. Skittish apparently thought I was accusing him of library embezzlement, and he went into a little speech of his own. I stood with my mouth hanging open as he defended himself to the heavens. Finally, I managed to explain that I wasn't mad, and the situation was diffused as quickly as it began.

I don't like tense work situations. Nobody does, I'm sure; why, then, can't they see how they add to the problem by getting defensive? It's a shame; normally, this is an extremely light-hearted, easygoing workplace. I've been in far worse places, sadly, and my skin crawls when I see the library begin to resemble those places. I want to scream, "Would everybody please calm down?!" I'm sure they'd stop grumping about each other, but only to start in on me: "Who does she think she is, telling us to calm down?"