Jackson turns one month old tomorrow. One month. Roughly speaking, that’s about 250 hours of sleep I’ve lost. That’s how I count now, you see — in hours of sleep I’m missing out on. And I’ve missed out on a lot of sleep.
I was complaining about this to my Dad on GChat the other day and he said, “Payback’s a bitch.” Apparently, I was not an easy baby. Nothing about my early months were easy. I was born in the middle of a typhoon for one thing — the biggest typhoon to rock Japan in a couple of decades. I can’t imagine it must have been fun driving to the hospital in that. My mom says I came out screaming, too. She said at one point it was just my head sticking out and I was screaming and screaming. And I didn’t stop screaming for several months.
Jackson seems to take after me, I’m afraid. He’s fidgety like I am. And hot-headed and very impatient. And he zones out when Drew starts talking about the Yankees.
The difference between us is that I am a reasonable person. But he’s a baby, and babies are unreasonable tiny tyrants! You can’t bargain with them, you can’t reason with them, and there’s no bribing them to do what you want either. There’s nothing you can do to convince them to shut up and go to sleep at three in the morning if what they want to do is be wide awake, kicking their little feet and batting their little fists against your chest and and wailing as loudly as possible. And so, my friends, I am sleep deprived. I am so tired, I can barely function. I don’t know what day it is or if I remembered to shower and change my underwear today. I forget words all the time, like that one word… um… you know … starts with a…
Wait, what was I talking about?
Yesterday, I had my follow-up visit with my obgyn — side note: I have never been so excited for a 2 1/2 hour roundtrip subway commute in my life! I actually got to read a book … uninterrupted! — and I asked my doctor for some anti-anxiety medication. I’ve been so on edge, I broke out into hives recently and they haven’t gone away. As I was leaving, I remembered I never got the prescription, so I asked the receptionist if the doctor had left it with her.
“What was it for?” she asked, rifling through some papers on the desk. And I just looked at her blankly. In the seconds between asking if the doctor had left me a prescription and the receptionist asking me what specific prescription I was referring to, I’d totally forgotten what we were talking about.
“Huh?” I asked.
“What did you need?” she said, patiently.
“Umm…” I replied, suddenly aware of that missing spot in my head where my brain used to be. “To make an appointment?”
The appointment I probably need to make is with a shrink — my obgyn did subtly suggest it. I don’t feel depressed or like I have major baby blues or whatever. I just feel … like I’m losing my mind. Like the baby ate my brain and I’m sort of wandering around like a half-dead zombie. I feel like life as I’ve always known it no longer exists … which is true, I guess. It’s like I’m living someone else’s life and I’m waiting for that person to come back and take over so I can get some sleep again and feel halfway human — halfway like me again.
In the meantime: coffee.