How long have you been crying? A minute? Ten? I check my phone - it's two in the morning.
Slipping out from beneath our comforter and its warmth, I head to the nursery. It's been three weeks since we came home from the hospital, but the routine is already set. After a diaper change, I re-swaddle you, go to the rocker, and we start a round of midnight feeding. You're frantic at first - all smacking and rooting and fists - but you settle into contented sucking after a moment.
And looking down at your face in the faint glow of the nightlight, I could cry you're so beautiful. I can hardly believe God gave you to us.
You nurse until you're so drowsy you don't even wake up while you're burped. Then you're back in your crib, and I steal out of your room. It's been an hour but it doesn't feel it. Time is already flying.
I slip back beneath the comforter beside the warmth of your father, and just like almost every night, he wakes up a little. Light sleeping is the paramedic's curse I suppose.
Then comes the moment that has become the last part of my routine. Though I sleep on my side with my back to him, he reaches over and runs a hand over the brown hair I gave you.
"You're doing a great job," he whispers. "I love you, babe."
Then he rolls over and is fast asleep once again.
And you know, it's strange. There's a lot to miss - now that three more weeks have passed and the world is upside down. I miss the way he keeps me laughing, the comfort of our everyday conversations, the warmth of his hand in mine. But right now, more than anything else, I miss that moment. Now that I creep back under a cold comforter with only an empty space beside me, I miss his midnight whispers and his fingers in my hair.
Your daddy and I didn't know how much we could love before you came along. How much we could love each other, how much we could love you. In a world filled with craziness, our love for you is uncomplicated.
So we'll stay apart as long as we need to.
But from my cold bed to his - I love you, babe. You're doing a great job.
You have an engaged reader, an appreciative audience, someone who knows about the writing part of life, if nothing much else.
ReplyDeleteSo nicely structured, the curved-back ending, the dissection of loves, old and new. It's RIGHT THERE, no distance between reader and writer.
ReplyDeleteI read a lot of dumb 'silver-lining' coronavirus writing, people saying how happy they are to slow down, spend more time with their kids, just be able to think without rushing around, cook at home, etc. A lot of it is just goofy. I don't believe in their silver linings at all because this is not a wonderful 'learning experience' laid on specially for them, not when people are sick and dying.
ReplyDeleteYour piece is the opposite of all that. This is your experience. This is real. This is what is happening. There is no sugar coating.
Sorry for the delay - lost power for a few days there.
ReplyDeleteI agree. I’ve read some people saying that staying home, without all the distractions of modern life, children will look back on these days as the best of their lives... Well maybe if the children don’t understand what’s going on.
I get that people need to find positivity and I’m all for that. But comments like this seem oblivious and somehow judgemental.
Thank you for your comments - I’m always delighted to see that you’ve read and enjoyed a piece of mine.