I’m in a car. I’m the passenger. I wish it were a nicer car. It’s certainly a fast one. I’m on a roadtrip headed towards a not-so-quiet little town known as “Wits End” and Ellabelle is in the drivers seat.
Yes, the baby is driving me to wits end today. She’s fussy and refuses to sleep. Anytime you put her down she cries. I have tried everything I can think of, and she’s still wailing. I keep telling myself that this will end and that I may even miss this incessant neediness of hers someday. That day, though, is not today. This lack of sleep thing is getting harder and harder to handle. My house is a mess. There are dishes and laundry that need to be done. There are bottles that need to be cleaned. And like I said, I’ve been headed towards the town of Wits End, and it’s scary sometimes. It’s not like there’s a scenic route to getting there. It’s foot to the floor, pedal to the metal, a fast and furious race to get there.
But then I look at the drivers seat, and I see this: and I know that it’ll all be ok. I just need to remember that even when Wits End is coming up into view, the driver is my everything and this shall pass.