The sound and the sigh

Swoosh …
Each inhalation
An exaltation
Of the life force
That made these dark bodies
Out of bits of earth and dust

Deep breathing
Their diaphragms contract
Lungs filling – and flattening
Recoiling into a round of gust rhythm
Soft sounds seep
From lips loose and lax . . .
Relax.

A whistle
A wheeze
A total loss of control
A pause, a silent moment
Apneic and awing
The fragility of these emitting funnels
These tunnels that take it all in
Quicken this maternal heart

The scent of sweet milk
Souring on virgin tongues
Wafts through the air
Down the hall
Into my room.
A trail of incense
Olfactory only to mother

Into a squall, giving way
To gales
Building
And blustering into
wind shear.

Then quiet creeps in,
Winding into my peace,
From peril to pranayama.

“Tired is my middle name.”^*

Back when my second child was a baby I’d never have thought that, almost six years on, I’d still be sleep deprived. There are at least four big differences now – my resilience is worn down, I’m working and not on maternity leave, my son can walk, and he can struggle and argue about why he won’t go back to sleep. For about two years now we have lived with the likely prospect that every night, somewhere around 3.00am, we will be woken by a little voice saying ‘I’m scared’, or some variation thereof. Last night was the clincher – I haven’t been back to sleep since 3.30am – and it’s time to seek help. We’ve tried everything – the usual reassurance and cuddles, soft music, a nightlight, dream catcher, crystals, meditation CD – and I’m horrified to say that nothing has worked! I’m heading for a helpline right now!

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