I still have dreams about the NICU. Two years out and I find that to be one of the most surprising remnants of Rowan’s birthday. Most of my dreams are stress dreams anyhow, though they tend towards scary wizards and plots Steven Moffat couldn’t come up with in his own wildest dreams.
I was thinking I hadn’t felt all that depressed this winter. Then I realized that everyone else is also depressed so I’m only less depressed by comparison. It’s difficult to wallow in this temporary darkness when we are all engulfed in an existential muck. We are all Artax and we’re walking through the Swamp of Sadness. Even the most optimistic among us are Atreyu, at best — doomed to keep up that grim determination lest The Nothing descend upon us all.
A few years ago, when we were just starting to entertain the idea of maybe possibly having a second kid someday maybe, I decided we should get Lorelei a set of twin over full bunk beds. Our house isn’t huge and I knew eventually she would have to share a room with her future sibling, so I was planning ahead.
I remember coming across a meme that said something like, “I’m not a night owl or an early bird. I’m a perpetually exhausted pigeon.”
Rowan had yet another audiologist appointment yesterday, followed by an appointment with the ENT. It turned out the audiologist appointment was very brief; she did the test to check eardrum flexibility and it was still showing that his eardrums were not moving nearly as much as they should be. She decided not to make him sit through another hearing test.
I finally, finally won the battle of the Christmas tree.
I recently wrote a piece for HuffPo about my general apathy for the prolonged Christmas season. The whole Christmas tree thing is slightly anxiety-producing on the best of years but this year, with a curious toddler who likes to climb things and I just was not feeling it.
Holy guacamole, Rowan is 18 months old. Pretty much all words I have to say about that are just cliche parenting lines about “my baby” and “time flies” and whatnot.