I wish I had something to say; it is possible to be so tired you not only can’t think of words, but whole sentences. Thoughts spread out – a word here, some logic over there – and you can’t muster the focus to pull them together. If you’re anything like your dad and I, you’ll experience this kind of tired sooner than later.
In lieu of words, here’s a chart of how often you ate this week:
An average sixteen times each day, double what the doctor told us to shoot for. I didn’t leave the couch. The house is decimated. Empty food containers and spit up-stained linens everywhere. You were born small and eating is important. You did real good. Three week growth spurt complete. Now you seem willing to let me eat and maybe even sleep, so I’m going to do that. Though I should note: the week wasn’t terrible. I love the way your arm falls across my chest before I swaddle you up to put you bed and you demand to be fed again.