I’m not a fatalist, I’m not a fatalist

This blog, much like my writing life, has fallen by the wayside as of late. The absence of postings speaks to the realities of writing and mothering, however, which is ironically what I’m trying to do here. Absence isn’t, however, a sign of impending doom (cue Homer Simpson chasing the flying barbeque pig as it sails over Springfield: “it’s still good, it’s still good”).

On that note, I’m pleased to announce that I attended my first postpartum poetry reading last Monday night and took in some delicious food and writing (Jim Johnstone, Brendan Mcleod, and Adam Sol). Having a baby is full of milestones, which are typically recorded in the baby book. But what about a recording instrument for the mother? I should have kept a diary of the first time I shaved my legs, ate a meal with two hands, and retained a page of something I’d read. So, I’ll start here and now: first poetry reading. Check.

Coinciding with my milestone was what seems to be a significant development for my daughter: the first time she woke up at 4 a.m. Don’t get me wrong, she did that lots when she was little – newborn little – but she’s slept like a champion for most of her life. We’re talking ten to twelve hours, usually (fellow moms, please don’t hate me – we’ve had other challenges). When she started crying, I went to retrieve her from her crib, bring her to bed and give her some milk and cuddles – our usual routine, which typically begins around 7 a.m. But the room was darker than usual and I felt extra tired – an effect exacerbated by the not one but two beers I’d consumed over the course of the evening. (Party animal territory, I know. I had been feeling celebratory and had finished breastfeeding for the day, so why not?) After she’d finished nursing, my baby started kicking, clawing, and punching my stomach, then offering up some babble wisdom and raising her tiny fists to the light in the window, which was glowing blue like a screening of Poltergeist.

What had happened to my daughter? I chalked her sleeplessness up to a change in bedtime routine (my husband had put her down for the night) and assumed she’d sort herself out the next night.

Thing is, she hasn’t. She’s done the same thing every night since the reading. Oh gods, what does this mean?

Well, for starters, she’s been taking morning naps – a first – and pretty much the only reason I’m able to sit down at the keyboard and write this posting. It’s not all bad. Now perhaps I can start writing when the baby sleeps (something Stephanie Bolster recommends in the aforementioned Double Lives).

So here I am and here we are, I suppose. Here’s the Simpsons reference. I’m off to make a pork sandwich.