It’s called a suicide note when someone writes something before they kill themselves, right?
What’s it called when you’re writing something and you die before you finish?
What if something kills you mid-sentence?
Is that a homicide note?
I’m just wondering because I’m sitting here writing, but there’s a good chance I’ll be gone before I’m finished. I just want to be upfront about that.
But why? I hear you ask.
It’s because I’m the proud father of a three year old who doesn’t sleep.
A three month old? You say.
No, (you’re not listening.)
Practically an adolescent.
And does he not sleep? I hear you say.
No. He does not.
Well, that’s not strictly accurate.
He does sleep.
He sleeps between 19:14 and 22:07.
Then he wakes. And wakes again.
He rips open the delicate fabric of our sub-consciousness and chews it up with mouthfuls of hot, salty tears.
And then, with one of us at his bedside, he settles back down for another preciously limited interval of silence.
Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance: The five stages I go through every time my son wakes up during the night.
As I write this I look over at my wife.
I’m almost certain she’s my wife.
She looks different.
She looks at me different.
She looks at me distant.
She’s a waif.
She’s a wraith.
She’s a sailor cast adrift in a sea of heavy fog.
Or maybe it’s just my vision.
I have lazy eyes. They just want five more minutes.
They’re the reason I crashed into another car in the Coles carpark last night.
Crashed is a bit extreme.
It was more of a forceful rub.
A deep tissue collision.
They say driving tired is like driving drunk.
Maybe the cops should run traffic stops for tired drivers.
Have you had anything to sleep tonight, mate?
No. Nothing to sleep, officer.
Get out of the car please.
You’ll need to step into the Snooze Bus. You’re under a rest.
I know you think I’m being silly, but the Snooze Bus idea has legs.
Get an email to the Police Chief. Let’s do this.
But before you send that email, please pray for us.
We could really do with some sleep.