I love our marriage therapist, Paula. She gets all teary in sympathy at my now-sixth consecutive month of morning sickness, and kindly insists that I am not as fat as I think I am. But what endears her to me most is that she looks like someone who would have a really nice house to nap in.

Between this difficult pregnancy and daily responsibilities that include putting a two-and-half-year old into a half nelson just to get her shoes on, exhaustion is now my ever-present pal. Because of this, naps now hold the same level of excitement and mystique that I once reserved for sex. These days, the highest compliment I can give someone is betting that their house would be a nice place to nap.  I am obsessed with cleanliness and comfort. I’ll catch myself gazing lecherously at a well-dressed older woman, admiring her post-menopausal clothing choices, all soft textures and earth tones, and imagining her quiet, sunny Piedmont guest room with a bed covered in cloud-like pillows and a cashmere blanket. Maybe a golden retriever thumping her tail softly as I pad across the soft carpet to crawl between smooth 800-thread-count sheets. And ever so faintly, as I drift to sleep, I can hear my hostess vacuuming in the other room. Oh yeah baby, don’t stop.