Osmosis

This is getting harder. I thought, for a while, it was getting easier. Maybe it still is, but today I’m blinded by the crying and the sleep deprivation.  Tomorrow I might be able to drive the car to school in the morning without chanting “don’t close your eyes” while sitting at red traffic lights.

Really I couldn’t close my eyes.  Not even to blink. I squinted enough to keep them from getting all dry and crackly.  And he won’t sleep at home. Except now.  So I guess I’m exaggerating.  He hasn’t slept.  Not like this.  Since I’ve been back from the big city. 

He’s like a koala bear.  Little paws digging into my chest wadding bits of my shirt in his tiny man-hands.  His hands are like Jed’s.  Wide.  And they move like Jed’s.  He held me so tight last night while I rocked him.  Both times.  Like the mattress in his crib was hot lava.  And it wasn’t.  (I checked.) He wanted to lay on me.  His head on my collar bone.  His legs around my waist.  When did he get so big?  His daddy’s hands gripping my yogurt and snot covered sleeves. 

He sucked my life away yesterday.  And last night.  And early this morning. His body against mine at all hours.  Our skins are semi-permeable membranes.  My fuel filling him up.  His body sleeping and regenerating.  Becoming well again. Slowly.

I feel empty.  But I can’t put him down, so I close my eyes and cover us up with a quilt.  And he makes this beautiful sound.  A sigh.  A long breath.  The way “full” sounds. 

The sound charges me.  Just a little.  And I can make it through the night.