The Circle Game

From the time we started this blog, our chief objective has been to capture thoughts and memories. I am not exactly the scrapbooking type, so our plan is to keep the blog to record the highs and lows of life as we know it. Whether 100 people see it or 10, the idea is that reality prevails, and we remember things the way they really happened, even if that means the story is not wrapped in a satin bow.

Which brings me to the second week of Carson's presence in our home. While I absolutely adore him and spend a considerable amount of time wiping tears of joy regarding the miracle of this new life, I can also admit that there's a certain amount of frustration in our household right now. Who knew that an eight pound milk mongrel could turn the lives of three perfectly happy people upside down?

I am awake all night. There is no stretch of sleep longer than three hours. And let me tell you, things get pretty surreal around 4am. I watch the clock, waiting for him to finish nursing so I can maybe—just maybe—swaddle him tightly and get some rest. To pass the time I sit in the dark and sing to Carson, wondering every time why I don't keep my iPod on the nightstand next to me. This morning it was "Here Comes the Sun" by the Beatles, after which I silently congratulated myself for discovering the triple entendre as I nursed my tiny boy. I closed my eyes and imagined a field of flowers on a sunny day, which then became a vision of picnics, which then took me back to food. If God gave out tickets that you could use to have a hot meal appear before you, I'm quite certain that all the nursing mothers of the world would snatch them up before the poor fly-ridden children in Africa could blink an eye.

By 7am (yes, still awake) my thoughts drifted to the fact that our life is now a series of circles; For Derek, it's the clink of the spoon swirling Miralax into Ella's apple juice, since her slight disdain for this situation has resulted in her absolute resolve not to poo. For me, it's the hands of the clock which open their fingers and pin me down at the end of every hour. It's the pattern I rub on his fuzzy head and tiny feet, waking this sweet squeaking squealer who falls asleep at the breast. It's the rise and descent of the sun and moon, which mean nothing to us now. We eat breakfast sometimes at noon, and lunch at 4pm. It all depends on the baby. The dryer hums in an endless clockwise rhythm of Dreft-scented sleepers and burp cloths. For Ella, it's the cycle of visitors who have come through the house, bringing food and gifts for Carson.

Every day is like groundhog day, save for the pattern on my forehead that changes daily, based on what I was leaning against when I dozed off for a few precious moments of sleep. Yesterday it was newsprint; today it was the texture from the wall next to our toilet. My hair is actually curly from the hormonal let down of night sweats, and my makeup drawer has not been opened in weeks now. I have dozens of messages to return and need to get out thank you notes. For now, it will all have to wait until we can step off the rotating carnival ride called Baby Planet.