Where "8 Hours" Comes From, And Where It's Going

Still high on the childbirth cocktail of progesterone, prolactin, oxytocin, and endorphins, life during the Fourth Trimester was three crazy months of baby, baby, baby. Nature is a compassionate mother, though, and she laid a hormonal path on which I traveled relatively free from fatigue. If my body was tired (and it must have been) I didn't know about it. If it was hungry, I wasn't aware of that, either. It was as if my body was intricately wired with the wherewithal to withstand the insanity of bringing a screaming little kickboxer into our home. My own desires for sleep or a complete meal eaten in a single session were replaced by the necessity of caring for someone else. I thanked God for this every day, for the old me could never have pulled it off.

Now birth and those first few months post natal are all but forgotten, and corporal life as I've known it is back with a vengeance. I wake up exhausted and starving, then schlep off to the shower, where I sit under the running water and think about the calories in a ham, egg and cheese sandwich. The fog of the fourth trimester has lifted, revealing that which has been there for the past three months, but which has been shrouded by a mercifully altered mental state. It has uncovered a world where sleep does not exist.

I need those 8 hours, now more than ever. Yet it's not in the stars. That, my friends, is the story of the rest of my life.


Blogger Spencer said...

Welcome back!

5:22 PM  
Blogger Jene said...

it is about time!

2:12 PM  

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