I emptied half a bag of lettuce onto a plate and threw pulled-off pieces of already-cooked chicken on top of it. Dinner, I told my husband. It had been a hundred years since I had slept. My hair was dirty; my eyes, old. This was last night.
We have to decide what kind of parents we want to be, I said. Do we just lay her in her bed and let her scream bloody murder until she's asleep or do we coddlecoddlecoddle her and end up with a teenager in OUR bed and never have any time for ourselves again?
I licked chicken carcass off my fingers; the same old jazz poured from our kitchen speakers. I might be losing my mind, I said.
Might? He smiled. I waved the knife in the air, a small, sharp one that we received for a wedding gift.
On the other side of the room, Eva slept soundlessly, which she again did, after being fed and bathed and read to, all through the night, until the sun eeked in, and with a full night's sleep in me, I held her. My mind, it seems, has returned. Now, if I can just get around to washing my hair.