How do these days both crawl and leap?
I took a nap today, which, as usual, left me feeling unstable, cranky, and even more tired. I had just fed Eve and she promptly fell asleep on me, which can have a surprisingly soporific effect. I thought of all the things I could do in the time she napped, and decided to join her in slumber instead. I regretted it when I woke up. Decisions. Consequences.
This will be a short one. Day two. Eve is crying, is too tired to fall asleep, apparently, when all Eric and I would like to do is put her down to rest so that we can eat dinner, put our feet up, breathe. Parenting is relentless. There are very short breaks in which you regain very little energy or productivity. You are always in demand. You are always on. Your sleep is fitful and your meals are inhaled.
I know it won't always be this way, and I see the longing glances from parents whose children have already moved on, have entered another phase that requires an entirely different kind of energy and love. I know that this time will be short: that is the nature of this beast. I see pictures from mere weeks ago, when she could not support her neck, would not smile, took no notice of the sun. Already, she contains so many more multitudes than I could envision. Her days, they crawl and leap.
I began reading a new book today. Bad Feminist by Roxane Gay. I would like this to be my next book review, a prospect both thrilling and terrifying. I struggle with self-doubt. Specifically, I tend to question my intelligence, my ability to form ideas that make sense, that are compelling, that are worthy of being read. Roxane Gay is a writer I've come to admire for her ability to do all of those things, and she makes it seem easy, which is typical of one who truly excels at their craft. To even try to critique a book of hers feels perverse and backwards. But this is a part of the challenge, isn't it? To stare my insecurities in the eye and tell them to go to hell?
Eve is still awake. My stomach is growling. It's 9:26. This night will probably be really long, but then it will be over. And one day I'll probably want to wish it back.