Sleep. How precious a sound. It rolls through my addled brain and slips like a hot wind across the dry desert of my lips. It teases and alludes me. I am denied its sweet embrace by something sweeter still, but that does not make the exchange any more bearable.
Zane won’t sleep. He fights it with coughs and cries and standing in his crib throwing pacifiers like curveballs. He won’t go to sleep at bedtime. He is up every hour, sometimes in between. He wakes up for good about 5:30am. It makes my head hurt.
My body is not happy. I go about in a daze of slowed reflexes and pounding headaches. I have a constant hangover without the aid of drink. I am not thirsty.