Midnights, March: 2

in ,

That was pretty bold, Yesterday's Carrie, to assume me capable of whipping up something funny at 3 am. This is an hour for scoundrels and thieves. (What does that even mean? I have no idea. I'm so tired.)

I used to do my best writing at this time of night. But now? Well, I just tried to mentally break down a sandbox to a 1:16 scale model, but something definitely went wrong along the way, because this thing got tiny. I guess I could use it as a mental ashtray. But why did I try that in the first place? To what end? From what possible beginning? Thoughts are squirrelly this time of night.

I'm not funny at 3 am anymore. Rather, you can't wake up at 3 am and be funny. You can stay up this late and be very funny, but an alarm set for the wee hours is not conducive to humor.

When I pick Albie up to feed him, I know he's extra hungry when he manages to dive to the side in the air so that he's horizontal in my arms. “Allow me,” he says, saving me the trouble of shifting him into position. “Shall we start with the left side tonight?” It is adorable—and shameful that my infant son has the type of core strength I could only dream of.