This morning got off to a terrible start. Terrible. It was a rough night and early start to the day, and all in all I could not imagine feeling any worse.
I texted a friend, wallowed in self-pity, then cooked myself the most delicious breakfast possible.
Torre’s favourite thing lately is to pull himself up to stand against a chair or a table and then call me to help him down or help him walk to somewhere. As bacon sizzled in the kitchen, I tried to explain to him that he had used up all of me during the night, that it was just a sad shell of me lying on the carpet unable to help him. He mostly just stood there yelling. At one point he crawled over and bit me on the leg.
Finally breakfast was ready, and Torre warmed my heart by eating some banana and some egg. Feeding him is an area that I feel almost as helpless in as getting him to sleep. Like, babies come with no skills at all, and I just don’t know how to teach the basic necessities of life. Part of me knows it will all work out, but a tiny, panicky part of my brain insists after every wakeful night and every rejected meal that I will still be waking up in the night to nurse my 12 year old because all he ever eats is rice crackers. So with some real food in both our bellies, my dejection began to ease, and I grabbed my Bible to read a bit while Torre played on the floor. Continue reading “Our True Selves”