March came in like a lion, quickly tackled us, and has spent all month gnawing on our innards. Or at least that's how it feels to this tired mother. Everyone in the household has been ill with some variation of the flu except me. The house sounds like a sanitorium and everyone is cranky and tired, even the baby. Or maybe I should say, especially the baby. I am back to the level of tired I felt when she was a newborn and I swear I'm one lost nap away from my eyes simply rolling, red and glassy, out of my skull as I collapse on the floor.
Despite this fatigue -- or maybe because of it -- I have taken to reading every book pertaining to babies that I can get my hands on. I've always had an obsessive need to know everything about anything I turn my attention to, and now that I am raising this tiny human (while simultaneously raising two teenagers -- talk about perspective!), this need to know everything is stronger than ever. Unfortunately, there does not appear to be a consensus on how to grow a healthy, happy, thriving human being. After all those hours of reading, I feel no wiser or more sure of the path I am taking. I am left with my visceral inclinations: to show her unconditional love, take everything else on a case-by-case basis, and try not to forget that I can't be much use to anyone if I neglect myself. I hope that's enough. Even as the tears of fatigue roll down my face, I can honestly say I have never felt such great joy. There is no way to describe this love.