The Main Reason Parents Never Sleep

Somehow, I actually believed there would be rest once we got through the baby phase.

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A Last-Minute Letter to Santa

Dear Santa,

It’s been a while since I wrote a letter like this, and I understand that you primarily take requests from children, but I have a lot on my mind this year and I thought I might as well take a shot by sending you a good old-fashioned Christmas list. These aren’t the kinds of things that can fit into a stocking or a brightly wrapped box. No, like most grown-ups’ Christmas lists, mine is full of intangibles. And before you crumple this up and throw it out, I’ll tell you I’m not asking for peace on Earth. I know that’s impossible, or else it would manifest like it did in that one Simpsons episode where peace meant everyone on Earth had died. I’m not asking you to change the nature of humanity, nor do I expect you have the power to tinker with the clockwork of world or local politics, any individual human heart or the nature of groupthink. My requests are much more selfish than that. Because while I know you’re not a miracle worker on the grand scale, I’ve got to hope there are some sparks of magic in that sack of yours, and I could certainly use a little magic this year.

One of Those Days

I probably should have gotten stitches today. There’s a cut on my left pinky–Lord knows how, but it got in the way of my knife when I was dicing a pear for the girl (which she didn’t even eat)–and it’s bleeding through the Band-Aid. I know it stopped at some point, because it was dry when I switched my giant blob of gauze and tape (it was a gusher) for something smaller, but still. It hurts. But then, me being me, I’m sitting here typing. About half the time, I remember to use my left ring finger for the pinky’s keystrokes but, well. Muscle memory.

Maybe I should have gone to the doctor, but coincidentally enough, I was against the clock to make it to another doctor’s appointment. Not my doctor. The boy’s endocrinologist. We check in with her about every four months, discuss percentiles and dosages, draw a little blood. Perhaps the universe wanted me to feel a little of what my son was about to feel. Or maybe I’m just an exhausted, deep-fried mess.

Workouts for Mommies, One and Two