I spent the greater part of last night trying (and failing) to write today’s post.
First I tried to write the “Top Ten Ways We Survive Marriage,” but gave up after feeling like a pretentious twit. Then I started to write a fall bucket list (because everybody’s doing it), but the only things I could think of involved eating.
Finally I tried to write a post about the book I’m reading for book club, but before I could get a word down about it–I got distracted with every sad thought imaginable; my cat getting hit by a car (I don’t have a cat), my grandma who has yet to meet Waylon, Baby Daddy dying in a plane crash …until I couldn’t possibly write anything at all.
So I went to bed.
Fifteen minutes later the clock struck midnight and my baby was up and wide awake.
I was not in the mood for this surprise. I was feeling frustrated with writing, sad about the potential death of my spouse, and a weird loneliness that descended out of nowhere–kind of like when you check your e-mail and nothing’s there, not even spam.
Translation: I was not in the mood to deal with a cranky infant.
I picked him up and tried to nurse him back to sleep, but instead of eating, he just stared at me with a big, gummy grin on his face that said, “I’m so happy to see you.”
Loneliness vanished, sadness erased, and after five minutes of sitting in the dark, smiling at each other, I thought–I should write about this.
So here I am, writing about nothing in particular besides the fact that babies are the equivalent to Prozac and a migraine all in the same breath. And even though that’s nothing new, it’s my truth for today.
That’s the thing about truth, it is so unoriginal. We want to write our stories with pomp and circumstance, climaxes and plot twists, passion and valor, but the truth is that our lives are made up of predictable and repetitive motions. We go off book a time or two, capsize our universe for a day, surprise our mother, but the truth, the actual god honest truth, is not original.
Truth is being afraid of spiders, loving the sound of the ocean, crying in the shower, laughing until you can’t breathe, missing your dad, hating your thighs, and tripping over the step into the kitchen. Truth is habit; truth is what actually happened, no matter how cliche and worn-out.
So that’s what happened.