Well, I've been awake since 4am because Ted Cruz still sucks. Not that that's news to anyone.
I got up to use the bathroom and brought my phone with me, to use as a flashlight. Which, we all know, is just code for "I wanted to check Twitter while I peed." Mind ya business.
Anyway, millions of us, here in Texas, are on Day 4 of Snowmageddon. We're doing okay, but most people are definitely not. Power is out. Which means most people don't have heat. Which means their pipes are freezing and bursting. And if they have any water flowing, most of us here in Fort Worth are also under a "boil water" order. It's not awesome here, is what I'm saying.
So, imagine my utterly dumbfounded shock to learn that Senator Ted Cruz was high-tailing it out of Texas, and escaping to Mexico for a quick vacation. I'll spare you the long list of reasons he makes my skin crawl, but this was a new low.
I'm trying to get my mind and soul right, and I really don't want to be one of those people that spews hate on the internet, so I'm not going to say all the swear words I believe this situation deserves.
But sometimes when I learn that very bad people, who my friends and neighbors voted for, do very bad things, it makes it incredibly difficult to sleep at night. I don't mean that metaphorically, either. I can't just doomscroll while I pee, find out that the guy who isn't Beto O'Rourke did exactly the kind of thing you'd expect him to do during a crisis, and go back to sleep like a normal person.
I have to lay in bed and think about how everything is awful and scary, and horrible things happen to people who don't deserve them, while the people I didn't vote for go to Cancun on vacation like all their constituents aren't epically screwed sideways right now. And all of these racing thoughts about the certain collapse of society happen while my idiot monkey brain plays a never-ending loop of Nickelback and the Pinkalicious theme song and the soundtrack to Spring Awakening, while I lie in the dark and wish for answers about why humanity is even a thing anymore.
And then the baby wakes up.
And suddenly it's 5:30 a.m., and I'm nursing my teething baby in the pitch black of my bedroom, thirsty for water I can't drink from my faucet, mentally tweeting about how Beto never would have done this to us.
My cross-legged knees bounce the baby while she groggily searches for relief from her unease, and my body exists in this moment for no reason but to keep her alive and wonder where the fuck human beings go from here. I am awestruck by the beauty of this blind understanding between us, that I will be there to meet her needs, even in the darkness, and yet everything outside my bed is just a God-awful mess. I can fix everything for her, here under the cover of silence, but I am powerless over the pain outside this room. It is both breathtaking and heartbreaking.
Eventually, she finds peace, and I place her gently down in her crib again. Yet the early day is here already, and I cannot find rest, myself. The weight of it all is just too much, and my heart cannot keep up with my brain. As the sun begins to creep into my room, I silently pray that today brings something, anything, better for people here than the days we've seen.
It's not much, but it's the best I have to offer.