Sleep, why are you so shy?

Though the pain of my loss is ever present, the daylight hours are number. The pain is there, but it's slightly duller. Maybe it's because my mind is focusing on my almost three year old, who has, admittedly, turned into the spawn of Satan. Yeah - whoever told you about terrible twos LIED: It's the threes you're going to have to worry about.

Yesterday she emptied a bag of sharp cheddar cheese onto my black living room rug. She proceeded to dance upon it, singing the theme song to Yo Gabba Gabba. Followed by this act of love, she converted my bathroom into a slip and slide. Have you ever wondered how many bubbles a bottle of lavender shampoo and toilet water can make? If so, you're in for a treat! Oh! Here's a great one to add to the baby book: she scaled the kitchen counters. Clearly, Emma has amazing fine motor skills. She easily opened sealed garlic and paprika powders. Dancing in her underwear upon the counter, and hopefully not foreshadowing a career as an exotic dancer, she dumped the spices out, a vibrant parade of creme and rusty red filling the air.

 The end result? My home smells like the filthiest whorehouse on the planet: old cheese and garlic with a hint of lavender shampoo failing to mask the assaulting odor.

During the day, I try to be cheerful. Despite Emma's moments of demon-hood, she is extremely intelligent, loving, intuitive,  and daring. I love her spirit! One day she'll be a professional bad ass if she doesn't get sidetracked by that pesky counter. I try not to let my sadness and grief eclipse her day. Her shenanigans are age appropriate and she has joy. She deserves joy. She deserves to feel this before becoming hardened to the world.

I ventured outside for about 1/2 an hour yesterday. I picked leaves with her. We found acorns. We collected pine cones. We listened to the traffic off Westheimer, and enjoyed the sunshine - until I had the worst heartburn of my life from whatever the hell I ate. I ran inside to consume 3468534986534865 pounds of Tums. I could not stand to be inside, feeling the aching vulnerability of the loss.

Regardless, the days are hard. I cannot lay on my sofa and cry. I can't pour a glass of wine. I cannot watch trashy daytime t.v. so I can have this awesome confidence boost. There's nothing that makes you feel better when you know that at least you're not on Jerry Springer trying to differentiate if the father of your baby is a horse or one of the many men who ran a train on you. Yeah, pure class right there.

I am bitter aren't I? In the last few paragraphs I have spewed judgmental and vile things. My fingers are like venom as I type. I should not attack the weak (so I promise not to make any Teen Mom or Ke$ha jokes).

During the day I put my energy into coping. For being strong for Emma. For not bursting into tears when she comments about the baby in my tummy, especially when we're playing babies. I do not want my grief to take away the beauty of my relationship with Emma. I am very close with her - only a mother could understand.

It is very difficult, though. Never have I felt so challenged. Not when I worked full time and took 18 hours while taking care of Emma, too. Not the 100 page papers I've written. Not running a half marathon. Not even organizing a toddler playgroup (which is a jungle within itself).

By the evening, I am drained dry.  Have you ever tried to fake happiness when you really wanted to crawl into bed with a bottle of vodka? Yea - that's every second of the past few days. My husband comes home around 7 and I am so ashamed. My house is still messy, and there are still dishes to be done. There are probably bags of cheddar cheese on the floor. There is probably a toilet Emma didn't flush. There are, however, beautiful bouquets of flowers placed around the house, absentmindedly as I never know where to put them. See? I'm already seeing a silver lining to my rain cloud.

Kevin, oh Kevin. Bless his heart.. He comes home from work and tells me I look pretty. He doesn't say anything about my lack of domestic skills. I swear - someone took a vacuum and shoved the hose down my throat, only to take whatever skills I had in cleaning and mopping and starting the washing machine. He will quietly start dinner, and bring me the side sleeper deluxe (his pillow, the one I covet) to me and lay me on the couch. He feeds Emma, and bathes her. He cleans up the kitchen, and rubs my feet.

Eventually, though, he becomes tired. He works about 65 hours a week, and around 12 a.m. he must go to sleep.

This is where the hard part starts. My body and heart are physically and mentally exhausted. My eyes feel scratchy, begging for sleep. Though my brain - fuck my brain, it insists I stay away, haunting me with the moment I realized I miscarried. It screws with me as I analyze every cup of coffee, every time I accidentally missed a prenatal vitamin, the time I had sushi; the time I took ibuprofen without knowing Tylenol should be my drug of choice. It's so much what if's. It's so many if only's. It's so many could've-would've-should've.

Sleep is so shy. Sleep lurks behind the furniture and Christmas tree, and I am like Peter Pan chasing my own shadow - chasing something I need to be whole. If I could just sleep, I could think clearly. I could feel restored and ready to face the day ahead of me; the forced happiness, the patience I must have when my toddler has a meltdown or refuses to eat something she has eaten the last three years of her life.

The strength to not fall to the ground, my leg and arms a chubby mess of rage as I let everything out.

Maybe I don't need a grief counselor: maybe I need a good old fashioned temper tantrum. It seems like a cathartic experience. Emma is subdued after one. She lays there, her heavy-lashed eyes blinking, her small chest heaving, and she will suddenly say, "Alright, Mommy. Let's go color. I am ready to color."

If only things were that easy. I can't just lose it though. If I lose it, I don't think I'll ever be able to stop.