Baby boy is almost ten weeks old and I can count the number
of times I’ve had more than three consecutive hours of sleep on one hand. In fact, I could slam my hand in a car
door and probably still manage to count this out. He’s not a bad sleeper, whatever that means anyways. It’s a digestion thing for him, I think. But his innocence does not revive these
weary bones and spasm-ing lower back.
The relentlessness
of these tiny baby days is at times overwhelming. There is no point at which you punch-out. And when you’ve got a – let’s say –
untalented night sleeper, you don’t even have some semblance of reprieve. It is just constant yet unpredictable
life-sustaining dirty work, and totally mine to handle. This is not to say I don’t have a great
partner who saves the day by letting me sleep through breakfast on the weekends. Because I do. And I am so grateful.
But he works. And refuses
to lactate. By and large, the baby
and kid work to be done needs by me.
I have come to
realize that I must never be trusted with any state secrets, because sleep
deprivation is something I do not cope well and it could be used against me
quite effectively. At three a.m.,
slumped over a changing table and fumbling for a baby wipe, there is nothing I
would not give up or cop too.
Crop circles? Yeah, that
was me. No one wants to hear my
secrets, though. Because I am
whiny, oft times incoherent, and utterly monothematic: them kids! Them kids!
Them kids! I bore myself. But I’m too tired to feel much one way
or another about it.
My brain has been
breaking all over town. A couple
weeks ago, I took both of the kids to the downtown farmers market to meet
friends for lunch. As we somehow
tumbled out of the car and into the indoor food court, I passed by loads of
gorgeous fruit and vegetables. I
looked on a mountain of cantaloupe and thought, I want some of that. I must get some after this lunch that I
am already late for so forgetthecantaloupeandlet’sgo. When I went to get my melon forty odd minutes later, I
stepped out into a wasteland. Empty
concrete slabs. Large market sheds
shading no one at all.
Ohmygod. I hallucinated a
farmers market. I was very close
to turning and running, but given the baby strapped to my chest and my war-torn
pelvic floor, I was smart enough not
to do that. Heart pounding, I saw
a security guard and as one grasp onto reality – and not a living episode of Scooby Doo – I asked meekly, was there a
farmers market today? Yeah, he
said. On the other side. These are the flea market sheds. WELL MAYBE THEY SHOULD LOOK DIFFERENT
SO PEOPLE DON’T HAVE PANIC ATTACKS, I didn’t say. Days later, I open the door to beckon my dogs: Billy and
Sugar. And a cracking voice spews
out “Bigger! Shirley! Get in here!”
Um, Bigger and Shirley? Oh
dear.
Yesterday was a low
point. I ran my fingers through my
hair before washing my hands and caught a glimpse of redness on my scalp. Upon closer inspection, yep, I appeared
to some kind of leper. For some reason,
ringworm popped into my head. Which is not – as a matter of fact – a worm, but
instead a fungus. Only a smidge
less awful than it sounds. Now,
I’ve never had ringworm or known anyone with ringworm. I have no idea where this thought came
from, other than perhaps in past lives, I’ve also been a mom and this
information has just been imprinted on me. (And so was my law degree just a futile attempt to evade my
jammy-handed destiny??) But you get it from damp places and dirty kids. I raise a toddler in Tennessee. Check, check. Then the internet told me that ringworm can result in bald
spots. Well I made an appointment
for the next day with the acute care clinic. My body image has taken enough hits in the past few
months. Bald spots?? Enough’s enough, fungi.
Today was the
appointment, and Eli had to accompany me given the uncertain time frame. It all started out well enough, with
both me and Eli crying wildly while stuck in parking structure gridlock because
he is frightened during car rides and because my sanity is so viscerally linked
to his well-being that when unable to soothe his cries I fall apart. Then I get in to see doctor young
resident. She asks me when these
symptoms appeared. I truly have no
earthly idea. A fortnight?, I
offer, trying to deflect. Heh.
Heh. Eeehhh. I get one of those
“could be one of a few things” diagnoses and instructions to slather cream on
my head twice a day. (My poor
husband. It’s like I’m a real live super model, isn’t it honey??) But no one suggests that I will go bald
over this. So I’ll take it.
Today both children
have napped like champs. The
kitchen has been cleaned and my ancient computer has decided to recognize the
charger and turn on for once. Also
I’ve decided to order a pizza for dinner.
And I am left, with my glorious, full, and only maybe fungus-y head of
hair.
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