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One Day

One day I'll get more than 4 hours of consecutive sleep. One day.

If I keep telling myself that then it will come true. There must be some way of fixing this sleep problem Mikey has. I can see why people used to give their children alcohol to help them sleep, back in the day.

Letting him cry worked really well when we first did it. It took a while, but the whole family was so much better off with that extra sleep. Then with deployment it all got messed up again, the neighbours complained about his crying and now I'm too scared they'll complain again to let him cry. I honestly don't know why I care so much, I'm driving myself and Mikey crazy to appease some people we don't even really know. I need to go down there and have a nice talk with them about how they should maybe buy some earplugs. In fact I'll do that tomorrow.

I'm kinda of nostalgic for late nights, coffee drinking and writing. They're impossible at the moment, I've been going to bed between 9 and 10pm every night just so I have enough energy for Mikey's wakings.

One Day...

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I am a 24 year old British stay at home mother to a two year old boy. Married to a U.S. soldier and currently living in Germany.

I have seen the Vatican from the very top of St Peter's Basilica, the mud in the World War I trenches outside Ypres. I have walked through Montmartre side streets bustling with people in the evening, gotten lost in the streets of Greenwich Village NYC, run through cornfields on the Welsh border and sat outside with a cup of tea watching fireflies in the fields of the outer Chicago suburbs.

I have held the hands of others through addiction, fear, suicide, despair and come out the other side. I have left everything behind to begin anew.
I have fought mental illness and walked through snow in the mountains of the lake district, England. I have explored the morgue in the bowels of an abandoned hospital on a summer evening, climbed to the top of scaffolding on the outside of a five floor warehouse to look at the city lights of Nottingham at night and I have watched the sun setting on the Texas horizon.

I have held my son's tiny hand through the plastic window on an isolette in the NICU ward. Walked, speaking only in whispers, through the catacombs beneath the ground on the outskirts of Rome and seen the fireworks over Heidelberg castle.