Scot vs the Snoogle

Now, it's important to mention how much I adore my husband. Even though we'd been dating for more than five years before we tied the knot, I still think he's the bee's knees. When I see him dressed up, or down for that matter, I still say to myself- "Damn, girl"

This is a man who makes me dinner almost every night and all I have to do is set the table. Yes, ladies.

He fills his pockets with ginger candy because he knows how much I like them. Uh huh.

On the weekend, he says things like " Why don't you take a nap while I clean up?"

Let the church say Amen!

I would say more about what runs through my mind when I think about him, but my parents and my in-laws are going to be reading this, so I'll just make my point by saying how happy my husband makes me.

Scot is a good man.

Then, my tummy started growing. I woke up with sore muscles from my back being misaligned during sleep and I spent nights tossing, turning and waking up even more cranky than usual. I began making noises about getting a pregnancy pillow; he looked skpetical and darkly remarked that it would be like having a third person in the bed. (Again for the sake of the parents, I'll omit the obvious aside.)

In the end I was sad and because he is primordially programmed to fix any displeasure of mine, we found ourselves late one Friday night at the Babies R Us. We brought home a five pound ivory bundle of joy and I eagerly laid it out on the bed, under the covers. I got in and snoogled up against it, sighing with pleasure as it worked its magic on my neck, back, knees and ankles.
The next morning, cooing with delight, I suddenly realized Scot had been right.

The Snoogle was a bad idea.

Frankly, there's no way he can compete. The Snoogle is on demand bed-time cuddle. It never gets too hot in the middle of the night, or needs to change positions, or has to worry because it needs a drink of water and doesn't want to risk waking a tired pregnant woman by easing out of the cuddle. No! The Snoogle is all cuddle all the time. It is perfection, and that creates a powerful, insurgent thought- That there could be something, in some capacity, better than Scot; he is not infallible.

This was a mutinous thought, and I had to keep it at bay. But I couldn't help it. Every night I literally enfold myself around the Snoogle, pull the blankets over my chin, shiver with pleasure gasp!, turn my back to my husband. Very slippery slope, indeed. I felt powerless to stop it, torn between the two. How was I to choose? I couldn't imagine ever going back to the plain rectangular pillow, after the discovery of this treasure, and my wonderful soul mate had the inconvenient habit of occasionally needing to move during the night. Perhaps I could have them both.

Last week as I embarked on my night-time ritual with glee. Scot looked over at me, and said unblinkingly, with an eye to all at stake- " Just so you know, I'm throwing that thing out the window the day you have this baby." And with his own smile and sigh of pleasure closed his eyes and went to sleep.