Feeding the beast
Observing (and negotiating with) a terrorist in diapers who has a shopping addiction.
It’s 6 am, and I’ve just spent a couple thousand dollars. Gucci, Prada, Burberry. I know what my husband will say about it when he finds out, probably the moment he reads this. “Burberry? Really?” And I’ll answer, “Yeah, really, Burberry.”
My son woke me at 4 am. Shrieks. We rush to his bedroom. Well, Le Husband rushes to his bedroom. Meanwhile, I sigh and ponder the gravity of the situation. Shit, it’s 4:03 am. The situation is bad but I’ve had worse. I get up like lighting. I stomp my way out of my bedroom. I look at my husband, then I look at my son. My men, dog, and body; all gathered in our living room at 4:05 am.
I can tell his diaper is about to explode, so I undress him. He screams as though he can see death herself approaching, cutting corners, jumping, and sprinting to get him. I set him free from my hands as I give thought to something I haven’t worded before: I have a problem with saying four (or three) in the morning. 1 am and 2 am, are clear, I think they’re safely considered the night by all of us. 5 am and 6 am are undeniably the morning. But to let someone casually say, “I was up at three in the morning,” sounds ridiculous. I believe we must come up with a term that reflects the nature of life, transitions, the passing of time, and the liminal space between night and day. It is not dawn.
How about norning? It’s neither night nor morning. It’s night and it’s morning, it’s norning. Norning! I consider sharing this important finding with my husband but I anticipate a response that would kill my sudden, irrational, and kind of childish enthusiasm. He’s tired. My son lights up the room. Not in a I’m-obsessed-with-my-son-kinda-mom, but literally, he turns on every single lamp in our living room. My husband sighs, he’s truly exhausted, and I get it, it’s late (it’s early), it’s 4:10 in the norning.