After finally using a phone properly (not for FaceTime), everything is suddenly a phone. Essential oils, spice jars, prayer cards, shaped blocks, her hands…they’re all just something for her to hold to her face and babble at.
Oh, baby babble. And a creepy mama cackle. And after a message about data usage, I think we may only do a video on the blog once a month or so, at least until I figure out if that’s what’s eating up my high speed data.
We’ve had enough late nights/early mornings recently that we’ve just been exhausted. As I lay in bed the other night, listening to the peaceful, even breathing of my husband and baby, willing sleep to come to me, too, I composed in my head the following letter to the Dear Aunt Millie column of some newspaper:
Dear Aunt Millie,
I’m afraid my husband has some terrible terminal illness. Every evening, no matter how late we stay up, he keeps busy talking and writing and thinking busy thoughts, but the instant he crawls into bed, his speech slows, his thoughts become difficult to follow, and I can barely hear him mumble out his prayers before he begins to snore. Like any normal person, when I go to bed, I want to talk over the day, snuggle, and maybe even share a goodnight kiss, and as the slow paralysis creeps over my husband’s features, I’m filled with terror that this paralysis will gradually grow until he can no longer function during the day, or, even worse, our children will inherit this deadly malady and grow up thinking that beds are just for sleeping in! Help me!
A concerned wife and mother
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