Weaning

3/4/26

I did not feel up to writing last night. I’ve had some serious migraines as of late and last night was no different. They are manageable up to certain points, but after a time they just become exhausting. Small shame on me for now writing earlier, I suppose.

But it is the morning now. Yesterday there was thick fog among the dawn, and today it is like a light haze. The sun will surely burn its way through the mist before eleven. It should do nicely to warm the house up. Marie just left with the kids to her parent’s place. They watch Emerson during the day and pick up Amelia afterschool since they’ve enrolled her in catechism. I have feelings about those classes—and Catholicism at large—but Marie and her family find some sort of spiritual peace in it, so I don’t let it get to me.

We have been weaning Emerson off the bottle. It is now night number three where there is no milk in the middle of the night. We still give him a bottle when he lays down, and I give him one at nap time, but that is about it. He asks so politely for it in the middle of the night. He’ll say “can I have just a little che-che please? Just a tiny little bit.” Sometimes pretending to be asleep works, but he was persistent last night. So I read to him again.

The first night was just some story books, and last night was the first few pages of the first Harry Potter book. It is one of the few books in my kindle app he’d listen to. It worked to get him back to sleep, but damned if my headache didn’t come roaring back.

Beyond that, however, is my least favorite part about quitting smoking: the dreams. When I smoke regularly (green included) I don’t dream at night. But since it’s been near a month they are regular. I dislike them strongly. Many of them are bad dreams that occasionally cantor into nightmares. It is either an unsettling situation that is a warped interpretation of a previous trauma, or just a stress dream where I am driving at night and my feet don’t work and the turn is sharp and my death imminent.

They could be worse, I’m sure. But I won’t ask for that. Hopefully it is temporary. It may take my brain a while to unpack a few years worth of dreamless nights. Sort of like forcing yourself to eat the vegetables you dislike at the start of a meal so you can really savor the delicacies at the end. It has its own merits, but damn it why can’t pasta be as nutritious as a Brussels sprout?

I wrote a poem the other day. That is a good step toward my creative writing goals. For now I’ll keep journaling and remembering my days in the page.

With love to my family,

• E.B.