Tuesday.

"I'm not sure how it's humanly possible for someone to pee so much."

As I lumbered to the bathroom at 2 a.m., the fourth time since getting to bed at 9:30 p.m., it's all I could think about. Pee, why is there so much of you? WHY?!? I just want to sleep.

I get it – the whole pregnancy thing. The baby could have been sitting on my bladder. He could have been hosting a rave in my uterus and his glow stick hit my bladder. He could have been fist pumping into my bladder or doing an Irish jig on it. He's saucy already so I wouldn't put it past him. But, it's not like I woke up with a sensation and dribbled out a few drops in frustration.

No. It was not. I was in a full on pee at 2 a.m., Jimmy Dugan style. And it was making me angry. Irrationally so. I told myself that it wasn't worth it and in just a few weeks, the middle of the night peeing would be over.

I got back into bed and felt underneath my pillow. My phone. It was still there. Before my eyes drew shut, I considered turning off the alarm. Otherwise, it would wake me at 5:05 a.m. I fell asleep before I decided.

◊ ◊ ◊

There was no second guessing when I heard the ring. I knew I wouldn't sleep any more, and there was the urge to pee. Again.

I turned it off and headed downstairs, Denali in quick pursuit. I let him out and went about my routine. Go to the bathroom, slip on sports bra, put on socks. A shirt. Tie shoes.

And there were things not routine – grabbing my phone and checking to see whether there were new podcasts available for download; grabbing a pair of headphones from Mark's backpack; straightening the links of the leash. We were going to walk.

Or, apparently, I was going to walk. Denali saw the leash and bolted up the stairs. If dogs had the ability to give a middle finger, he would have done so as he moved faster than he has in weeks. And then he would have howled. With laughter, obviously.

"Fig it," I thought as I threw the leash on the couch. It will be just me and the road. And Jillian Michaels.

◊ ◊ ◊

I rarely listen to music when I run – even on the treadmill. It seems like such a hassle most days. That said, I do appreciate it when I need a distraction or motivation. Though I need both for a walk, I can't listen to it when I head out. Maybe it makes me want to run too much or maybe the beat is too fast for the 36-week waddle.

Podcasts and audiobooks are made for walking, though, My current audiobook is "All the Light We Cannot See" ... but it's on disc. As I no longer have a discman (sad times), I was grateful I had a new Jillian Michaels podcast.

I wound around the neighborhood, on what would have been a short loop just a couple months ago, and tried to drown out the boredom with talk of friends vs. stalkers and cake balls. Time passed slowly, giving me time to note the piles of ice still there, despite recent 50-degree days, and wave to other early risers. I even gritted my teeth to say "Nice job" to a runner moving so smoothly and quickly that I sort of wanted to throw a stick at him.

He said, "Hi." He didn't hear my pleasantries through the music playing in his ears. And so when he passed me again, I didn't give him any praise. I looked down and tuned into Jillian.

◊ ◊ ◊

I came home hungry. It might have been the cake ball talk or the baby. It certainly wasn't a sweat equity or calorie deficit.

A mix of canola oil and butter sizzled in the skillet as I prepped my breakfast – a slice of rye toast and two fried eggs. If only I had bacon, I thought, thinking of my dad and the way he would cover his eggs in black pepper. He'd dip cut up the eggs and scoop it up with bacon, soaking up the remaining yolk with the toast. Rye, often, as it's a Cincinnati staple.

I scrounged in the pantry till I found the pepper. Shake. Shake, shake, shake. Shake. I nearly sneezed ... and peed myself.