I was thinking this morning about how, in extreme cold, the body protects itself by sending blood to the life-sustaining organs, and constricting bloodflow the rest. That's my unscientific, unresearched understanding of what happens, anyway, when people lose toes to hypothermia. You can live without a toe. A heart, not so much.
My little home has had hypothermia this summer.
We have been in collective shock. It's Brian and my energy that sustains life in our little world, and all of our energy went into that alone. Feed the baby, change the baby. Feed the toddler, change the toddler. Sleep. Repeat. It was fine temporarily, but eventually we started noticing that some important extremeties - our sanity, for example - were going numb.
This week we're working on restoring a little higher level of functioning to our lives. Step one was restocking. I went to W@l-m@rt and bought all of the bajillion little things we've used up since June 21, but nobody's thought to grab when they ran into the store for more milk or formula. Batteries, water filter refills, paper towels - the kind of things you assume will be available when you need them, but eventually have to be replaced.
Step two was more interesting. Brian and I talked. We actually had a conversation that did not revolve around feeding schedules or discipline. We just - talked. It was so much fun we talked some more.
Step three started today. We both found some spiritual nourishment. Brian downloaded sermons to hear when he's traveling for work, and I went for a walk. Alone. There's nothing wrong with please-help kinds of prayers when I'm driving down the road, but that's really not nourishing. I require a little silence. It clears my head, so that I can pray and hear a response. Silence is hard to find when you live with toddlers, so this morning Brian fed Silas at dawn while I spent an hour alone outside. It was lovely.
So this is me, not exactly out of the baby fog, but moving towards daylight. It feels good to be on my way back.