So what is the step that will move me forward? How long before I change from the intestinally bloated, hormone raging, sore nippled mess that you see before you back to the marginally crazed, wardrobe challenged, domestic goddess that you know and love?
Will the baby fever subside? Will the platitudes that I mouth become truth? Will I ever throw away this nightgown, or will I continue to dress for bed as though this is 1950? Will I be able to get my house into shape before my in-laws arrive tomorrow? Um, not at this rate.
The still of the night brings out the self-pity. Without the light and bustle of day, it's easy to feel alone when you're not and pathetic when you're really just disappointed.
Dawn will bring new light, the music of the morning and the unending rhythm of laundry, dishes and dog hair. It will also bring the burble and lilt of my daughters voice, the warmth of my husband's hand and the strength of my family's love.
The next step will come. It may be a stumble or a shuffle. It may be a skip or a hop. It will come. Motion will happen.