Found Louie, our 12 year old yellow lab, canoodling with my SNOOGLE pregnancy pillow this morning. Since I was about six months pregnant, I've had a love/hate relationship with this pillow--it's kind of like an ex boyfriend who keeps floating in and out of your life. One day, I think we're the ideal match--best night of sleep ever, and another night, I'm thrusting it onto the floor at 4am in a rage.
For most pregnant women, the introduction of the SNOOGLE represents the end of an era for a married couple. It's officially saying, "I'm too big to cuddle with you and anyway, my ginormous stomach scares the crap out of you, so let's just call this what it is...a move toward having twin beds." The SNOOGLE has become the Maginot Line of pregnant couples across the world.
Every night, when Mike and I doze off, I attempt not to use the SNOOGLE in an effort to remain close to him...to not feel as if we're floating off on separate rafts, linked only by the grossly sweet stripper smell of the cocoa butter I put on my stretch marks (which, the doctor has informed me is a complete crock as stretch marks are entirely genetic) right before sleep. I'll put a regular pillow between my legs, attempting to emulate the SNOOGLE effect without so much...uh...SNOOGLE, but after I pop my nightguard (hot...soooooooo hot) in and toss and turn and toss and turn, I lean over, grab the SNOOGLE and shove it between Mike and me. This is a nightly exercise to which Mike responds, gruntingly, "There's the turd pillow."
To him, it looks like a piece of shit, to me, it's the 48th Parallel. Either way you spin it, there's no room to spoon with a 7lb baby interpretive dancing in your uterus.