Since vacation, I have been reading a lot more. I still have two very thick novels (Bolaño's 2666 and Byatt's The Children's Book) to finish, both started and abandoned while I was pregnant, unable to focus on anything more complicated than a Gilmore Girl's episode, during the endless months of fatigue and nausea.
I've started small. A Jo Nesbø novel (complete with classic deus ex machina). Some of Bolaño's poetry. Nonfiction on adjusting to a new identity post baby. The collected works of Amy Tan. Slowly I find myself gravitating towards works that require a little more heavy lifting.
It feels good, as if I'm finally seeing a light at the end of the tunnel. There is still a lot I know that I need to deal with. At the top of the list is finding a replacement for my doctor, who retired last year. Second on the list is convincing her replacement that the intestinal issues I have been suffering from since Toddler Alien was born are serious and affecting the quality of my life.
I'm still tired a lot. I still find it difficult to put my thoughts into coherent order. But I'm getting there.
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