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There is no word for that special fugue of despondent rage that covers one when at the highest watermark of sleep deprivation a nap is finally carved out and achieved, with the verbal instructions, "Do not wake me unless someone is bleeding or the earth is being destroyed," only to have your body ripped back into consciousness for a pointless question about dinner, or Legos, or giving a friend a ride.
There really should be a word for that.
There is no word for the feeling of a fat, round, warm little arm wrapped around your cold neck early in the morning; giving you their first spontaneous, onesie-wearing, full body, joyful-gleeful toddler hug of the day.
There really should be a word for that, because the sensory memory of that word penetrates even fugues of despondent rage and covers offspring with a grace that lasts through their teen years. A grace that they won't understand until they have children of their own.
There is no word for that special fugue of despondent rage that covers one when at the highest watermark of sleep deprivation a nap is finally carved out and achieved, with the verbal instructions, "Do not wake me unless someone is bleeding or the earth is being destroyed," only to have your body ripped back into consciousness for a pointless question about dinner, or Legos, or giving a friend a ride.
There really should be a word for that.
There is no word for the feeling of a fat, round, warm little arm wrapped around your cold neck early in the morning; giving you their first spontaneous, onesie-wearing, full body, joyful-gleeful toddler hug of the day.
There really should be a word for that, because the sensory memory of that word penetrates even fugues of despondent rage and covers offspring with a grace that lasts through their teen years. A grace that they won't understand until they have children of their own.
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