It’s 11:30pm

IMG_3841It’s 11:30pm.

I’m not sure what compelled me to all the sudden write after an eighth month sabbatical. My husband and I brought our son home from his moms house after we watched a UFC fight. Upon picking him up, his mom said he was crying and acting restless for three straight hours (which is unlike our son) making me feel like her watching him was a burden…already. Our son never cries for hours on end, and if he does, poor him. Honestly. I literally think to the point “holy shit there is a ghost in her house harassing my son”. But no, that’s not how life goes. More or less then none she got him on a bad seed, one where maybe he was teething and we (my husband and I) got lucky not to deal with. But now, he is sound asleep in his bed in our home. And here I am writing for once after eight months.

I run into people all the time that I haven’t seen in months. MONTHS. It’s always the same question “how is the baby?”. “He’s good, he’s big”. Don’t get me wrong, I always enjoy informing people of my son, but in actuality, I’m in denial from answering “I’m hurting”.

When you tell people your hurting, they assumed you’re depressed. So you don’t tell them. I’m good. How are you? I’m good. Not bad.

Here is my night.

Baby goes to sleep at 10pm. Mommy and Daddy stay up until midnight watching some cheesy rated D on demand movie. Mommy falls asleep on couch during half the movie and daddy wakes mommy up to go to bed. Baby wakes up at 2am for a bottle. Mommy drags her ass out of bed to give baby a bottle. We all go back to bed. Baby wakes up again at 5am. Mommy drags her ass out of bed to make baby a bottle to put him back to bed.

And this repeats until a final destination of 9am ( Thank you Jesus that is sleeping in for me).

Now I’m back to work. Back to the daily grind. The hustle. I go to work to almost escape my “so called life”. My new “mom life”.

The thing is, I get off work, and I expect the normal server life response “Where are we getting a drink??” but I have to ask “how is he?” “did he sleep?” “did he eat is solids?” and luckily for me, I have a husband that takes care of all of the above.

I had a friend ask me why I stopped writing. I didn’t even realize I was a writer. I just thought I was someone who documented photos. I told him, I felt lost after losing my dad to suicide. I didn’t even know where to start but I felt the constant fire burning inside me.

I’m sitting inside my home right now, my son is asleep. I’m watching the making of the “Rams” cheerleaders, by myself, home alone. It reminds me of my dad. It reminds me of my time as a professional cheerleader. On the day’s I feel the lowest, I at least remind myself that even if I wasn’t on a collegiate team, I still made it to the Professional team.

I wrote in the first time in 8 months. (8) not (eight) .

I miss my dad. I miss my pre-baby life. I miss my love life.