Forty-eight hours. They’ve dragged by at a snail’s pace between episodes of nose wiping, eye drying and the frantic hydration of tiny bodies. Racing from room to room with tissues, drinks, blankets and warm, loving hugs you would think that the hours would pass much quicker, yet one glance at the clock says otherwise.
Forty-eight hours these red and tired eyes have been open. At the critical moment – on the very edge of that cliff that promises to throw me deep down into the depths of sleep – a cry, a whimper, a chain of coughs call me back and I pull my protesting body back up over those rocks and do my duty as the mother that I am.
But oh how I long for that dark, echoing place where slumber waits. Down there on a bed of crisp wintering leaves, I say “Good eve” to my long suffering muse. There she waits with arms outstretched and dreams upon her brow. Her hair glistens with night frost while her eyes are deep pools of sparkling promise. Dreams and words and the flow of inspiration lives here. If I strain my ears hard enough I might pick up a whisper on the cold night air, or the faint sound of laughter from a happier place.
Yet the image fades as reality beckons and I shake off the clutches of sister sleep, bidding farewell to that quiet and sacred place.
Forty-eight hours. They’ve dragged by at a snail’s pace.