Black Hole

Ragged. Wiped. Weary. Exhausted. Spent. Loopy. Glassy-eyed and the walking barely functioning dead. I would not make a good movie zombie as I don't want brains or blood. Instead, I want sleep and coffee. Lots of coffee. But good zombie or not that's pretty much how I feel most days now. Like I am tied together with bubble gum, sheer will and good intention rather than the sound and sturdy structure that is my corporal body. I feel floaty and flighty. I bump into stuff. A lot. I forget what I'm doing and where I put things. I don't remember the last time I ate something hot. I am consumingly thirsty. My hair, my god. My hair may potentially require its own post which I don't have the energy to write right now. I am living in yoga pants and tank tops and willing my body daily, to miraculously shrink itself in leaps and bounds so I can fit in my normal human non-elasticized clothes again. Welcome to the other side. Welcome to new motherhood. The days roll by in a slow blown out psychedelic haze that just eats the hours so lazily I rarely notice if the sun has risen or set.

I remember some of this insanity after Joaquin was born. But it's truly amazing just how much I had forgotten. How much slipped through the cracks of my brain which is still in the throes of sleep deprivation from the arrival of my first baby. I am now wondering how I wasn't more prepared for this. How I didn't just nap more or beg to be frozen cryo-genetically until Wayah was born. How I didn't go into silent and still meditation in some hillside ashram. I wish I could roll over my sleep minutes but neither my life (or my cell phone plan) allow me to do that. So I worship at the alter of the French Press. Heed the clarion call of the dark roasted San Francisco Bay blend I am buying weekly by the armful, at the Spice Merchant. I don't dream of vacations to Thailand anymore. Don't fall into easy reverie over powdered sugar beaches and indigo and azure water and young coconuts cracked open and spilling into parched mouths. I dream about sleep. About how I can beg borrow or steal from Father Time, 3 hours in a row and how it would be the most decadent delicious thing that has been bequeathed to me in years. Yeah. I know.

Then there is the other side. And contrary to what I have written so far there is one and it is this; Wayah's sweet and cherubic little bird cooing side. The impossibly little feet in the palms of my hands side. The watching the sea shell pink and butter yellow dawn breaking with two tiny sleeping baby bodies curled like new ferns around my heart side. The warm quilt and sleepy nap side with my husband and now two children side. The my heart is fit to burst daily side. In these moments though I am slow to admit it, sleep is overrated and I see the wild and unrestrained beauty of a life lived in the changing and morphing half light.