wrung out

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Tired, so tired. Not just sleep tired, though that is at the root, the core, down below. I can power through my days and pretend that I’ve rested enough. I can keep up with the cleaning and cooking and mothering. But then the nights come and for more than a week of days now he has woken time and again, every two hours, every hour, every forty-five minutes. I watch my patience stretch and stretch and stretch and snap – pop – gone, and I mumble things I shouldn’t speak, things one ought not think about or wish upon one’s own child. Tranquilizers. Abandonment. He goes to bed late, not matter how early or often I try to put him down. He wakes promptly at six in the morning, bright-eyes, chirping, delighted with the sun. I second and third and fiftieth guess my choices – should I nurse him or no, sleep in his bed or no, walk with him, shush him, let him cry. I cringe with each sound, knowing my husband is wishing for sleep, knowing he, too, will be up at six, but then off to work for the day. I try to cry, but I’m too tired. I get thirsty, hungry, come down for a pre-dawn breakfast during one of his dozes.
There is no purpose to this post except, maybe, to remind me the next time around that this is normal, that this happens, and that I survived it, which I will.

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