There’s a fuzziness that hits the brain at the exact moment an Important Thought begins to crystalize, and this fuzziness is static shaped like an asteroid strike aftermath. The asteroid is the bird-of-prey shriek of the feral toddler, comprised of needle-textured timbre and opera-worthy vibrato.
The feral toddler is the snuggliest, sweetest, biggest-eyed need machine this side of a Siamese cat.
He has the fastest sticky fingers and the gnashingest tiny teeth.
He must be held, but also must never be picked up.
He is a brilliant little mad scientist in ways I didn’t even know to prepare myself and my home to receive.
He makes fifteen sounds per second and they are all baffling.
He needs a snack right now, but it must be my snack rather than the identical snack on his own plate.
He is the most deliciously bizarre creature of my acquaintance, perfect and horrible and magical and incomprehensible.
When I am overwhelmed by him, I miss the person I was before momhood (that feels bad, but I refuse to be felt bad by it today), but when I am away from him I hurt in my bones.
How is a person supposed to survive this? How did I already survive this once seventeen years ago?
All this to say: I miss writing and I miss having the brains to write.
See you on the other side.
xoxo, Friday
Friday is writing creepy bummers. 
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