Had an absolutely *horrible* time putting Arabis down tonight. She fought sleep in a visually taxing battle for two hours before finally passing out on my shoulder in front of the computer. We tried singing. We tried a bottle. We tried playing. We tried lying in bed together. We tried cuddling. The cat tried cuddling with us. Cat quickly left.
It's so bloody hot in here. The skylight is open but offers minimal ventilation (it's 26 feet overhead). (I live in a warehouse, for those of you who don't know.) I can't open the door to let fresh air from the hallway in as the cats will run out. I can't open the front window without being assailed by exhaust and soot. The fan runs but only tends to blow the hot air around. I've been squirting Arabis and me with a bottle of water all day. We both had about an hour of human interaction after we bathed, but we can't spend all day in the tub. The diaper pail is starting to smell.
I'm sitting here in a pool of my own sweat, drinking fruit juice and water and wishing I liked alcohol more, 'cause this would be a perfect time for it. Oh, I talk a good talk about my fruity rum drinks, but the truth of the matter is, I hate booze. I like the *idea* of it, just hate the reality.
I need to cultivate a vice.
I used to smoke clove cigarettes. Only outside and very rarely...well, not so rarely in times of stress. I quit when I got pregnant and it was the easiest thing to do. There were no second thoughts, no cravings, no going back. Occasionally I feel the desire for one gnaw at my insides like a starving rat, but when the cheese is placed in front of me I turn my nose up at it. It disgusts me.
I actually kept some cloves. Four of them. In my metal cigarette case, with a zippo, on the gold shelf in the entryway. They are there and I know they are there. They know that I know that they are there. And even when I am feeling especially stabby and *really* wanting to smoke, I don't. I don't even look at them.
They're probably stale by now anyway.
I need the ocean. I need to surf, to kayak. To use my body again, feel strong and healthy. I have accepted that the weight gain with my pregnancy, besides the preeclampsia, could also be a product of quitting smoking. But now, fourteen months after Arabis was born, I am still the same weight. I am *FIVE SIZES* bigger than my good winter surf wetsuit (O'Neill Psycho Zen Zip, for those who care). Even my spring suit, which is a size bigger, in no way will fit my fleshy form.
The irony is I can still feel my muscles buried deep. I am still strong. I don't *feel* fat, but when I look in a mirror, or try on clothes, the truth is brought home with brutal clarity.
Heh. This was supposed to be a quick update about the challenges of putting a baby to sleep in 80 degree weather and my returning insomnia, and here I am tiptoeing off into the land of neurosis. Ring around the mental trash, psyches going to collapse. All fall down?
I'm going to be good and attempt to sleep early tonight. Whether I do or not will be apparent if I end up posting again.
It is lovely to have the house to myself though, without the boys around. Just me and my daughter. Fighting sleep.