It wasn’t the blaring sirens that woke me, but your father screaming, WAKE UP, AIM, WAKE UP! THE HOUSE ALARM IS GOING OFF. The equivalent of someone bringing to my attention, Ma’am, you’re on fire. Good to know!
Has my hearing gotten that bad? (I’ll find out in a few weeks. Next summer, Montauk? Disney? Ear Surgery?)
Or is that when I hit the pillow at night I am in a near coma.
Oh, how there was a time when I couldn’t fall asleep at night! All those years watching the late night shows, South Park, Chelsea Lately! (Like Monday when I went to the mall unshowered in gym clothes, thinking back to my teenage self who would never have gone to Roosevelt Field without make-up on, gasp!)
Days are so physical. And now we’ve started screaming. And provoking each other, then tattling. Ma-MA! He HIT me! Well you hit him first, what did you expect? said with hand on hip, my empty words of authority, har, har har.
I always liked the Jim Morrison line, she dances in a ring of fire, and throws off the challenge with a shrug.
I always wanted to be that fire tossing girl.
Now, I am her. Not because I am so brazen (though after twenty face-plants, knee scrapes, dives off the couch a day, our home one heartbeat away from a triage unit, calm, cool, collected with each injury am I, ice?) but because apparently I am so god-damned tired after these long days of parenthood, hmph? I’m on fire? Oh…