Not a Princess.
Hans Christian Andersen penned the fairy tale "The Princess and the Pea," about the princess who had such sensitive skin that a single pea beneath piles of bedding was enough to keep her up all night.
If fairy tales are true, and I believe they are, judging by my freshly cobbled shoes every morning, I am not a princess. (Though I used to be, according to this post.)
Because every single night, I sleep like a baby, smashed on top of my insulin pump.
Before I got pregnant, I slept with my pump clipped to my pajamas, and occasionally woke up with the dent of my pump against my hip. But during the course of my pregnancy, as my belly grew and became hard and gigantic with the brewing Birdy, I stopped clipping my pump to my clothes. I felt weird when she kicked it, and I kept picturing her face with "Ok" button imprinted on it.
And after the baby was born, and my body shrank down to this version of its previous shape, I still didn't reclip the pump. Gone were the days of being princessy and fragile. According to Chris, I sleep without making a sound, smooshing myself on top of my insulin pump and not caring if it's jammed into my face.
To be perfectly honest, I usually wake up to find myself trying to actively hatch my insulin pump, cell phone (because its alarm goes off in the morning and my response is to snuggle it), and my Dexcom receiver. Not to mention the occasional visit from Siah, or the nights when I fall asleep with the laptop under my head. (Truth.) Our bed, once a safe-haven for sleep, is now like that machine at the bowling alley with the giant claw, all jumbled with stuff.
You could pour a whole bag of frozen peas into the bed and I'd simply nest around them. Sleep is that necessary, and I believe I could take a nap on the kitchen floor or on a bed of nails these days. Delicate flower? Nope.
So not a princess.