There are times of agitation where I liken the sensation to the inner workings of a grenade during the moments after the pin has been pulled, before the explosion. Lying in bed at night, trying to grab an hour of rest before I must rise and express. On the right, my husband’s snores mount a steady gurgling, spluttering, thundering assault. On the left, softer sounds of contentment that could at any moment turn into a wail, demanding milk. Above me, the whoosh of the breathing machine. From the other room, whimpering, whining, and a steady stream of chatter from a very strong willed nearly four year old who is bound and determined not to go to sleep. Outside my bedroom window a steady stream of traffic speeds by.
Another snore explodes in my ear. My nearly four year old calls into the room, “Daddy, why are you making those sounds? I don’t like those sounds. Stop making those sounds.” But the maker of those sounds is blissfully unaware, lost to the land of nod within seconds of his head hitting the pillow. He won’t hear the baby cry. He doesn’t hear the pleas from the other room. Will he feel it if I smash my fist in his face? The thought actually crossed my mind. The agitation is consuming me quickly, and the minutes are ticking by. The hour that I once had has dwindled, and with each passing minute in which sweet relief is nowhere to be found, the agitation rises. I surprise myself with the hostility of my thoughts. I don’t like the version of me that surfaces in moments as this.
Get through the night. Tomorrow is a new day. It becomes a mantra. And somehow, miraculously, hope and relief sail in with the dawn.
