cerumen ovenbird When you become a mother you must accept that you can be called into battle at any ungodly hour, wrenched from sleep by the gunshot of your child’s tears, the word “mom” mangled in her fear filled mouth. She is standing in my doorway, backlit by the weak glow of the hallway nightlight, looking so small and vulnerable in a unicorn nightgown. I turn the clock to face me, curse the hour: 2 a.m. “What’s wrong?” I ask and she comes to me. Perches on the bed, her face wet and sticky. She’s been up for ages. She can’t hear properly out of her left ear. It’s popped, perhaps, and the pressure won’t equalize. I recommend yawning, swallowing, having a sip of water…nothing works. I turn on the flashlight on my phone and peer into the dark of her ear canal and find the entrance to that cavern blocked. It’s like gazing into a beehive, her curved ear containing a single cell, capped with wax that cradles a pupating mouth, hungry for royal jelly. I know enough not to poke or prod. The ear drum is too easily damaged and I’ll more likely push wax further down than extract it, worsening the problem. Instead I tug her outer ear up and back, massage in a circular motion, wipe away what trickles into the fold of her outer ear. It takes a while but she suddenly lights up. “It’s fixed!” She exclaims as the world’s sounds resolve into their usual shape. I take her back to bed, tuck her in, kiss her forehead. But while I win the night’s sebaceous war I lose the fight with sleep. I am wide awake staring into the red eye of my alarm clock and when morning comes I find I haven’t dreamed at all having passed the night in a doze too light for imaginal journeying. The night will never be mine again. As long as I live a part of me will be listening for the sound of need pacing the hall. Worry is the hair shirt worn close to the skin that claims any possibility of peace. Every day I do penance for daring to love so ferociously. Every night I sleep with a sword under my pillow, ready to face whatever demons the stars see fit to send me. 260202 what's it to you? who go blather from