It is 1 am. I am sitting in the dark, and there is a mosquito buzzing around. My mission is to kill that bloodsucker. And then after, I want to write about how murderous I feel. Which makes me realize I have turned into my father. My father is the kind of author who writes about the small experiences of life: He writes about bees, plants, conversations, and lessons he’s drawn from the experiences.
Anyway, I sit there, very still, and wait for the mosquito. I have to hate it so much to be sacrificing sleep to murder it. He, because it definitely has to be a he to get on my last nerve, eventually lands on the wall. A fatal mistake. At that point, I summon everything I’ve got, and use my hand to smother him to the wall. A red spot remains on the mosquito net. I feel gratified for a second. Everything is finally right in the world.
I can finally lie down and rest. No? Who am I fooling. There can be no rest for me. Not while my baby hums next to me. So I switch off the torch, lie down next to him, and realize how miserable I have to be to derive joy from the death of a mosquito. It must be really bad. Like that episode in Friends where the only good thing going on for Ross is a sandwich. Don’t get me wrong though, I love my baby. It’s the newborn trenches that I am not so fond of. The nights are broken, and you’ve probably lost track of the days: You live lifetimes in the newborn trenches. So, I close my eyes, and I am finally drifting.
God forbid I should have some sleep before I hear it again: That high pitched whining which has become the soundtrack of my sleepless nights. It must be open season for these microscopic demons, and I am about to switch into full Constantine mode. Some people fight demons, but for me, mosquitoes and sleep deprivation will have to do. Just as I am plotting on how to murder this next one, my baby stirs, and now the nightshift cycle continues.