Windows.

From here, I can hear my computer humming. The dog grumbling. The baby swing rocking. And the quiet laying over it all. I think there's poetry in this, but it's sound thing not a word thing and I can't capture any kind of translation. My brain is working on a stream of consciousness sort of level, not interested in considering word meanings and structure, incapable of working that audible rhythm of quiet and sound into something else.

I should be sleeping. All three of my children are sleeping but I'm stuck in this rhythm, awake. My days are structured to maximize the times when my arms are free to work, I already have the kids gathered up to leave the house, the baby just ate and so I am free for a few hours. I must hurry, hurry, hurry until I must stop. It makes sleep a hard thing to find until I practically pass out, and then I feel like I've miss-scheduled the whole thing. I'm vaguely resentful of it all and am craving a chance to just sit.

I'm working on appreciating the people in my life for the positive things they grant me. I'm surrounded by some awfully cool people and they seem to make the puzzle pieces of my life fit together in a better way. Ways I don't understand, usually.

My time is up. Someone is calling me.

I'd quote that "tomato/tomato, potato/potato" song, but that's so cliche.

I wrote a blog post last week about going to Mass. Yes, you read that right: Mass.

Then a friend pointed out today that I can't really call it a blog post. Because I couldn't type it in at the time, due to Oliver's demands. So I hand wrote it instead. She feels I must now call it a journal entry. But I wrote it with the intention of typing later. Now I'm torn. To fill it in here, or just let it go? Or write something completely new?

Journaling. Blogging. Synonyms for so many.

Failure to change perspective is, in the end, simply failure. I think.

Recently, someone said to me "You write poetry, right?" I laughed. I said I used to write poetry. Now I write blog posts. This made me feel like some kind of sell out. I couldn't cut it as a poet, and so now I clutter the blogverse with rambling commentary. And obviously, this must be a bad thing. Or a step down.

Then I wondered: is it? Is it really so bad?

We talk about blogs as if they are some new, exciting method of communication. It's our way of connecting with other like minded people, sharing information, getting the words out of our heads and into something that seems somewhat more concrete. The truth is, all of this isn't new. It's just the current mutation of the age old habit of diary keeping, of writing social commentary, of meeting our fellow humans and making a connection with them. Blogs used to be printed in newspapers and magazines, in leaflets papering the local pub. When paper was a commodity, people used it to take the words out of their heads. Now it's the internet.

Admittedly, the wide availability of blogs has led to an overabundance of words thrown out there. Many of them aren't even all that interesting or good. Most will be forgotten over time and slowly rot away in the lost space in some server somewhere. There are a few, though, that will endure. This blog probably isn't one of the enduring ones. But that's ok with me. The idea of endurance is too overwhelming, the weight is too heavy. I'd rather stick with the idea that over time this will all be forgotten; it frees me to write honestly.

Is this any better or any worse than poetry? I'm beginning to think that I don't really know that answer to that question. I do know that I miss the craft I felt while working with poetry and I hope to one day recapture the drive to wrangle with words in such a way. For now, though, I'll take this online diary keeping for what it can offer me and skim the words out of my brain into some structure outside of myself.

Break out the cheesy uniforms, it's a call to arms.

It's only 10:30pm and I've been done in for hours. I managed to partly clean some of the house, produce some dinner, and whip up a batch of chocolate chip cookies. I gave up a shower and laundry. These are the trades required by this existence.

Something profound is lurking in the depths of my brain. I can feel it, trying to sneak up on me. It's weird. And kind of creepy. Also, it could not be profound at all. Problem is, it's stuck in there and not working it's way out here.

Some moments I feel normal. I remember a bit of myself that existed last week, last month, last year. And it all works together to fit right. Most of the time, I feel completely strung out. As if I'm still taking the narcotics and no one told me. I'm so out of sorts I feel like I need to ping my own location. Like when I can't find the cordless phone and I press the button on the base, making it beep obnoxiously until I can locate it. I need a base. With a button. That triggers some kind of locating device.

Probably, I just need more sleep.

Most definitely, I need a cheering section. I'm beginning to feel like I can't do this anymore - any of it. I need to hear a voice outside my head tell me that this, too, shall pass. [Yes, I've seen the new 'OK Go' video/song, no reference needed here.] I need to feel like the darkness will end. And that morning will be bright and wonderful. I'm losing my ability to see and understand all that on my own.

My words are all mixed up - in my head, in my speech, in my writing. This is deeply frustrating to me. I wonder if this is how people feel when they almost understand a foreign language. Actually, the craziest real thing happened the other day, and it was exactly how I feel. I was in church, trying to pay attention. Shane was talking about the parable of the mustard seed. He directed us (or I heard him direct us) to page 697. Which is where I found Mark 4:30, the parable of the mustard seed. But when Shane started reading aloud, he read from page 679 (notice the subtle difference), where you can find Matthew 13:31, the parable of the mustard seed. Only, as one might expect, the language of the verses was slightly different. Confused? I was. For a long time. This is where I am in life. Confused by subtle differences. Or just confused.

And rambling.

If you expect me to know what day it is, you might be disappointed. Or not.

It's been awhile since I've been this kind of crazy. It's a unique experience, this hormonally imbalanced, sleep deprived, stressed out kind of crazy. A special crazy, that comes with special things - like a newborn.

It's been three weeks. Exactly, to the day, that everything changed all over again. Mutated. Shifted. It feels like years, like hours. My sense of time is skewed, my brain is slow, my emotions are either on full or off. Once in awhile, it all seems good. Then some realization hits and I just want to sit there and cry.

Welcome to the hormone roller coaster, sleep deprived horror of my emotional existence. It will get better. In the meantime, I've started stuttering. Not a good sign.

None of this really means much of anything in the long run. Or maybe it does, but I won't really know for awhile. I can't tell how much of this will simply be fixed by time.

As an aside, Happy Birthday Mom. It's been a long time. We miss you.

Somewhere back there, I took a different turn.

Four days ago I walked into an operating room. 45 minutes or so later, they rolled me back out, drugged, stitched, and now finally able to look at the unexpected turn life took awhile back. His name is Oliver, and he's awesome.

Sure. I admit to bias. But it's all true.

There are relevant details... 20 inches long. 8 pounds, 13 ounces. Dark hair. Dark blue eyes. Interestingly, all these details change. He's already lost a pound. His hair color and eye color may change. The fact that he's awesome? Not budging on that one.

Awesome, as in awe inspiring. He reminds me of good things. Love and patience and light. He reminds me to look at my other children and savor, even when I'm frustrated and angry and overwhelmed.

Despite some sound advice, I spent as much of the first 24 of his life out here in the scary world as I could just being with him. A smart person probably would have sent him on down to the nursery and get some sleep. And the following day, my body was screaming at me. But my heart needed to cushion the transition from being pregnant to having an infant. It did my soul good to stare into that tiny face and breathe it all in.

Like most people, I revert to old habits while under stress.

It was a rough weekend. There's really no getting around that or hiding it. Being involved in a significant car wreck at 36 weeks of pregnancy sets off all sorts of alarms and problems. And I've got the refrain down pat: we went to the hospital, we got checked out, we're all fine. And we'll be fine. Don't worry. We're fine.

Only, I'm not fine. And the best I can seem to do about it is lie to everyone. It's so easy to say that I'm fine. Except at 2am last night, when I just sat there broken and sobbing, hiding in the dark.

Physically I will be fine. Seat belts can leave a bad bruise and mine did, so I can't lift anything or move too quickly or even sleep comfortably. But it will go away and the laundry can wait until it's better. And that's about it. A nasty, hurts when I breathe, bruise across my chest.

Emotionally, however, I'm just broken. It's not the accident, not really. Yes, it sucked and yes it ruined my weekend and yes I feel horrible that my friend's brand new car may be junkyard bound. But realy, I think this experience is just enough to push me beyond my limits. I was already operating at maximum capacity. Now, we're on overload.

Having some measure of control over things like laundry and housekeeping was keeping me sane. And those things are beyond my ability to impact right now. I felt like I could keep going a few more weeks until things are radically different, and then I could blame hormones and exhaustion and all of it on major surgery and a newborn. And that was ok. Because no one expects you to be all together after major surgery and a newborn, not even me. But I'm falling all apart, with no good excuse, and I'm pretty sure that I can't just keep going anymore. Which is making the whole situation so much worse.

Despite all that, when well meaning people ask if they can help, I tell them "we're good." In part, I say this because there's nothing they can do. Sure, the house is a mess but asking them to clean it would make everything unbearable for me. In part, I say this because I cannot face that level of weakness at this time or I might never recover. It feels like the fake persona I'm letting everyone see is the only thing that's saving me from going over the edge forever.

I'm tired of my own drama but I'm not sure how to change it. So I'm just going to keep trying to ignore it all until it goes away by itself. Or until I hit the point in a few weeks when it's acceptable for me to be an emotional wreck.