- Up for an hour in the dead of night, comforting, tucking in, kissing on the forehead, snuggling. Again. It’s been every night for a week (two?). I’m giving her grace because of the casts and the bronchitis, but I’m worried about enabling bad habits, about how I might be causing her unsettledness with my own.
- There he is. Right where he should be. Maybe where he always was. But now I can see him, feel his weight in the fabric of the air–a tangible presence of his own.
- Fuck cancer.
- It’s similar to speaking another language before I’m fluent. I don’t know the words to explain what’s happening to me. She’s incredulous; I’m frustrated. But there’s a referral at the end, so something clicked.
- Dilated pupils as a metaphor. Opening up too far, perceiving too much at once, can hurt you.
- Lists of lists.
- I’m so cold my phone doesn’t register my touch. Time to go.
- The soul-exciting mustiness of summer clothes brought out of storage, the particular scent of a house that’s hibernated too long coming to life as spring warms the bricks outside.
- Jennifer Garner’s adorable baking gives me far more joy than it probably should.
- The tyranny of the blank Excel workbook.
Of babysleep angst, dilated pupils as a metaphor, house smells, and Jennifer Garner’s baking.