Cyclone

It is easy to blame the baby at this late stage. He is his own person, after all, with big oven-mitt hands and a head like a battering ram. He has no deference. I wonder what will happen if I fall asleep while he is awake. Would he eat me like a cannibal? It seems likely. Transubstantiation. There is nothing of me left, only you, my sweetest and best boy, my Mr. Bigman, my pickle bear angel face. 

There’s no stopping it, we are going right down the drain. What I want to say is: I feel lost and wild and maybe I’m enjoying it. I think I’m going to be sick, but spin me faster. Whip me harder. I don’t think there are any decisions left to make. Sleep training or sleep learning, co-sleeping or floor bed, none of this matters. At the heart of it is me and you: the organ that came out of my body that I can’t get back in, and me, the body with the big wound.

This is certainly the most abusive relationship I’ve ever been in—and there have been some stunners. But none of my friends are worried about me. I’m giving up everything I love, my health, and they’re sending cards that say “congratulations!”

I’m a mess and everyone knows it. Maybe you’ll sleep when you turn three. All my hair is falling out. Let’s go for a hike today, a family adventure. Look at the beautiful leaf you found. Kill me faster. But let’s also stay alive forever so I can figure out how to describe what color your eyes are.

I used to write at my desk in the sunlight and count the leaves on my maple tree. The pages of my books ticked and tocked. No one to disturb me. I think that is true. I think that was me. It’s hard to know for sure. Now my boots are soaked, my socks, my skin. The tide is coming too fast and you are too close to the water. There is only one thing I can do. You laugh and laugh and my teeth chatter all the way home.