It's as much about improvisation as anything else, that much I've figured out. The bun changes from week to week and hour to hour; when we did the math, we realized that he's gaining an ounce a day. Alongside this disturbing physical trend of raising an orca whale, the neural pathways are screaming into high gear making keeping track of the bun a tricky high wire act that I feel woefully unprepared for. Now that he's mastered the fine art of turning over he's practicing at all hours, including in his sleep. When he wakes up on his stomach he screeches in fear or frustration. When we bring him in our room to eat, he wants to play. And his brain seems to be working so hard that he's having an even harder time falling asleep than he used to; last night, after three hours of at times crippling frustration on my part, I finally got the little monkey to sleep at ten p.m. Eight hours later, with three hours less sleep than he needs, he's wide awake and screeching playfully at his exhausted and overwhelmed parents. I've slept seven hours in two days.
Coupled with far too many social engagements I have no possibility of begging out of and a deadline for a writing fellowship that looms next Friday, a barbecue that has grown exponentially and out of control (a barbecue that is the going-away party for a friend--also non-negotiable), I'm plagued by insomnia.
I've had better weeks.
And I just noticed that my feet stink.