On Sunday night I opened the diary that used to steer my life. It’s the kind that has a little slot for each day of the week. These are the only kinds of diaries I have ever kept: endless lists of appointments and meetings and venues. I hold onto them still. They track how and where I used to spend time.

I opened the diary and I plotted out my week. I wrote what I would do in which days. I got my deadlines in order. I felt a distant calm butter my shoulders, which always feel tense at the moment. I knew, even as I was doing it, that it was overly ambitious. By Monday lunch time I was napping rather than getting on with what the diary had promised, but that was alright - I knew, at least, what I was supposed to have been doing when I decided to climb into bed instead.

There are nearly four blank months in the diary - between this week and the one when C was born. I remember filling it as he swelled inside of me, wondering if I’d use it again, if there would be empty pages. As if, for a moment, I had stopped existing. This week has been the closest I have felt to stopping existing. The sleep deprivation is kicking in. The adrenaline has worn off. My patience is fraying. I see the manic gloss of the woman who had a newborn and realise that the challenge is the slog of it, rather than any individual hour. One of this week’s savourites speaks to this, below the line.

But also this is a week where I have felt my edges - words from an old lover that made its way into Rootbound and I think about more often than I do their source. I have felt rawness and joy and reconnection and curiosity and strange, featherlight euphoria. This is another new facet of living. Here are some of the good things from it:...