I’ve been running on less than five hours of sleep for the past two weeks and I’m feeling a little bit like Guy Pearce in Memento, which would make Carl Carrie-Anne Moss. I don’t trust people with hyphenated names, I say. Your brain is broken, he quips back.
I don’t know when I showered last. My hair smells clean, so it was probably yesterday, unless I used dry shampoo, then all bets are off. The armpit check came back negative – I must’ve showered yesterday or else I used a massive amount of deodorant, which I probably did since my pits smell like margaritas.
I have a terrible taste in my mouth, as if I was drinking the night before, except I wasn’t. I keep brushing my teeth thinking this will resolve the issue, but now my mouth burns, feels too minty and I feel like I’ve been violated by a dentist somehow.
My stomach’s been hurting. It feels like an alien is growing inside me and is about to tear through my ribcage. You probably have an ulcer, Carl says matter-of-factly. Shit, I didn’t know I was married to a gastroenterologist.
And all this because the baby has had a difficult time sleeping at night. She has been an absolute terror. It’s like a Rob Zombie movie, but worse. Carl and I glance at each other at 4am and although no words are spoken, we both know what each other is thinking: keep your damn clothes on – no more goddamn babies!