A Brief Return to Normalcy (Kinda, Almost)

This Saturday we had a turning point of sorts. Throwing caution to the wind, Bree and I packed up the Otter, grabbed enough supplies to keep baby fed, clothed and diapered on a deserted island for about a month, and headed into the wilds of the Calabasas Farmers Market.

Otter slept blissfully in her bjorn, while people chatted with us about her cuteness and smallness. They congratulated us. We felt happy. We bought a squash, some greens and guavas, which tasted of wild strawberries. Moving through the sunshine, surrounded by farm fresh fruit and vegetables and, most importantly, people, life seemed lighter and happier. Almost normal, in fact.

Returning home, Bree and I made a squash salad and some pasta, patting ourselves on the back about how cleverly we had arranged it all. It seems that the arrogance gods were watching, and the were not happy. At approximately 8 pm, Otter had had her night snack, got changed into pyjamas and we were ready to settle her down and sit down to dinner ourselves. She had other ideas.

Otter screamed at the top of her lungs, shattering glass and eardrums; she kicked at me, and frankly anything within kicking distance; she was hysterical. Meanwhile, Bree and I took turns walking, shaking, shushing, turning on the vacuum and the vent, rocking and singing. All to no avail.

10 pm - I feed her again; she gets sleepy. I put her down, hoping she's really tired now and Bree and I can finally eat. We reheat the food. We sit down. She starts to cry. I curse myself for being so naive.

11 pm - I've been singing that lullaby about the mother who keeps buying her baby sub-par birds, rings and animals over and over again for what seems like hours. Mother assumes all her gifts will break, turn over, or otherwise fail to perform, but keeps on buying them anyway. Her pessimism and obstinacy in the face of failure depress me. I keep singing anyway, since it's the only song I can still process over the earsplitting cries of Otter.

11:30 pm - I consider suicide.

12:00 am - Having deemed suicide too time consuming, I've kept singing. And either because she's exhausted or hates the song too and can think of no other way to escape it, Otter not so much falls asleep, as passes out in my arms. I hobble to the couch bleary eyed. I'm beyond hunger, but I'm going to have some of my thrice-reheated pasta, dammit. And that glass of wine. I earned a drink.

"Normal" life seems miles, no, galaxies away.