Tired

I am not complaining. But I am really tired.

This kind of tired I can do. I remember waking all night, nursing all night, changing diapers all night. And then doing it all day, too. I remember this, I can do this. In many ways, this kind of tired is so very much easier than the tired I was after Calla died. That tired never quite seems to go away.

I am lucky, though. This little guy sleeps more than I thought he would. Unfortunately I cannot sleep while he does, due to caffeine or a toddler or a racing mind. But I can rest and unplug my brain.

I am not complaining. I will take this tired a million times over the kind of full-on weariness I discovered in January.  The exhaustion after losing our little girl is unending, and when I stop to put my brain to it, it threatens to overwhelm me. As it is I feel like I am holding on to everything with the fumblingest of a grasp; the balance we have can slip at any minute.

I am not complaining. My husband will laugh, but I almost relish gross diaper changes, spit-up on my shoulder (who am I kidding--projected spit-up down my neck like sour perfume is more like it), the middle-of-the-night grunting of a boy trying to kick free of his swaddle. I am not irritated, or annoyed, or even wishing for more sleep. It means he's here, and real, and breathing, and mine to keep. I will take this tired. I will cherish this tired.

I do not want to be tired from grief any more, although that's not going anywhere anytime soon. That is a bone-deep tired, adding weight to every step, every heartbeat. That is a tired I am still learning how to do. I don't know that I'll ever get used to it.

It is a tired that doesn't pass; when there's no baby to learn to sleep through the night, there is no reprieve, no waking in the morning thinking, "I can't believe how rested I am!" It is a restlessness, a searching, a puzzle with no answer.

I am still not complaining.