Oof. I am just so damned, dog-dead tired.
Fuzzy, hazy, tater tots for brains tired. Achy-jelly-floppy bones tired. Tired to the edge of delirium. That kind of tired where you’re so tired that even your tiredness is tired — an ooey-gooey layer cake of cumulative maternal fatigue.
It’s a tiredness so complete and all-consuming that after six months spent plowing through my days from beneath its soporific mantel, the sensation has somehow ceased to be unpleasant. Continue reading
Today, owing to a multitude of orthodontic sins committed throughout early adulthood, I chanced to find myself, at the tender age of 35, seated in an orthodontist’s chair, getting fitted for a retainer.
Today, my baby girl is five months old.
Parenthood is full of paradoxes, no doubt, but on the occasion of this tiny birthday, I’m fixated on one in particular: how we choose to raise our young is such an intensely personal thing, and yet so many of those choices must be acted out in full view of others.
Like it or not, much of the work of parenting is done in public.
It’s been a perfectly useless Sunday.
On the eve of her twelfth week on earth, Baby G remains clingy and crabby, even in my arms, especially in her Papa’s arms, eternally and maddeningly displeased with most everything she encounters.But especially: car seats, baby slings, swings, bouncy chairs, anything that squeaks or rocks or does not dispense milk.