It's So Hard To Say Goodbye...To Your Pregnancy Body Pillow

Have you ever heard of a Snoogle? If you’re pregnant, you either have one or you want one. If you’ve never been pregnant, allow me to enlighten you.

The Snoogle is a pillow that takes up more real estate on a bed than should legally be allowed. It envelops you in a warmth and comfort you’ve probably never thought possible. It also effectively kicks your partner out of the bed.

Behold the Snoogle:

Look at this thing. Look at it. Have you ever seen anything so glorious? One of the very cruel details of pregnancy (that no one mentions) is that you’re exhausted, but you can’t freaking sleep. You can’t lie on your back, you can’t lie on your stomach, and you have to get up every five seconds to pee. And you don’t even want to know about something called “restless arm syndrome,” which is basically a nightmare wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in hell.

The Snoogle makes this stuff easier to deal with. It surrounds you in pillowy joy. It really is as comfortable as it looks. And it’s one of the first things your partner is going to be pushing to get rid of once that baby exits your body, because it may or may not be making their night’s sleep a living hell — unless your bedroom just happens to contain two California king-sized beds pushed together as a sleeping arrangement, which I’m guessing it doesn’t.

At about month seven in my first pregnancy, I started to become miserable. My belly was growing and I had crazy sciatic nerve pain, a common symptom for pregnant women. Couple that with the fact that I’m one of those people who, when not pregnant, always sleeps on her stomach. Pregnancy sleep was hell for me. Enter, the Snoogle — or whatever this double-Snoogle monstrosity is called. This is the one I got:

This is not me, by the way. I don’t own any matching pajamas.

Not only did I sleep with it at night, I carried this monster around the house with me, positioned it on the couch, and sat on it like a throne. When the enormous box was delivered to our door and my husband had to carry it up to our third-floor walk-up, there was a look that can only be described as “confusion meets horror” on his face. “What the fuck is this, and why is it so light?” he asked. It’s almost as if he immediately sensed that this mass of polyester-stuffed cotton would be inching him out of his own bed.

After the baby arrived, I was able to milk the discomfort from my emergency surgery long enough to keep the pillow in the house for a few more weeks. But eventually, even I knew it had to go. But where? Was I just supposed to banish it to the curb? That seemed so cold. Should I sell it? The thought of trying to sell something that had been sandwiched between my legs for months seemed wrong. I used my inability to settle on its disposal to keep it around for a few more weeks.

Then one night I had a friend over for wine. She had recently broken up with a long-term boyfriend and we were commiserating — me about losing my freedom, her about losing her man. I had one of those railroad-style apartments, so you had to walk through my bedroom to get to the bathroom. She excused herself, and a few seconds later I heard, “What in the hell is this thing?” I walked back to my room to see her nestled in my Snoogle.

Okay, so I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that my first reaction was to rip her from its warm embrace. I steeled myself, and decided to ask, “Do you want it?”

“Of course!” She answered.

Was. Not. Expecting. That.

I’d been to her apartment; it was as small as mine. Did she really want this monstrosity taking up 100 square feet of the 600 she had?

“Are you sure? How are you going to get it home? It takes up a lot of space, you know. Are you sure you have room for it?” I was desperately trying to think of something that would render the Snoogle unappealing. It wasn’t working.

“I want it. I totally want it.”

About an hour later, she called a cab and left with my Snoogle wrapped around her shoulders like a warm, heavy, intrusive friend. I half-expected the Snoogle to come to life and insist we not be parted. It didn’t happen. The Snoogle doesn’t care who it Snoogles with, apparently.

Bastard.

This post contains affiliate links, which means we receive a small portion of the sale if you make a purchase using this link.