Rowan Small and Mighty Turns Two: Contents May Include Both Sound and Fury

Two years ago a phlebotomist came into my room at 5 am. She inserted a needle into the crease of my elbow like someone had once every few days for the last two weeks. I was amazed they were still able to find a vein. Nothing stands out about that particular needle stick. It melts together with all the rest of the early morning wake up calls that involved someone standing over me with a needle and vacutainer.

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Semi-lucid thoughts of a sleep deprived mother. 

I haven’t slept for more than three straight hours in eight months. I’m being held together through sheer force of will, caffeine, and napping in toilet stalls. Sometimes I forget what I’m doing – while I’m doing it. Why am I in the kitchen and why is the cat in the refrigerator? Did I say cat? I meant toothbrush. Sometimes I mix up words. I have a yoga mat in my office that is only used for corpse pose.
I’m mostly doing a decent job of being a person who is, you know… awake. But there are some things that I am just not capable of dealing with right now.

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“Farewell to the old me”

I just realized how inexplicably sad I am for a past version of myself. I look at the pictures of me pregnant and just think, “You. You have no idea.”  I want a time turner or a TARDIS so I can go cross my own timeline and tell that version of myself that it is all going to be okay. Excruciating at times, but ultimately okay. I’d like a future version to come confirm that, come to think of it.

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