Midnights, March: 1

The title of this post is a misnomer: I'm actually writing these at 3 am after sneaking down the hall to feed my seven-month-old son. We snuggle into an honest-to-goodness wooden rocking chair with beautiful swirling sweeping carvings of ginkgo leaves and a homey creak when I stand up. Albie has a wee snack to tide him over till morning while I write a little something on my phone. It's not the neatest system—should I be gazing down beatifically at his perfect face instead of squinting into the blue light? Probably. Alas. May the poor, neglected face forgive me.

The return to writing is new. Until a few days ago, I would stumble in here and do my best just to stay awake by reading or scrolling or letting dark thoughts prop my eyes open. I can't say what exactly brought me back to a place where I could write again; I'm certainly not any less tired than I was before. Maybe it was a change in the weather (the last day of February granted us a glorious, warm afternoon drenched in golden late-winter light, and I have a week of rain to look forward to). Maybe it was just time doing its work (we go through seasons, you know, of consuming-mulling-creating). 

Whatever the cause, I'm feeling better these days, folding motherhood into myself rather than the other way around. And writing. In a dark room at 3 am while rocking, rocking, because there is no other time for it. 

And it feels like letting out the longest sigh.

I'll try to write something funny tomorrow.