I wrote the following last summer (with paper and pen, no doubt at some odd hour when I should have been sleeping but couldn't). We were deep in infant-land but not so deep that we could see the horizon clearly. I found these scribblings yesterday, and then this evening read this report from the wilds of life with a newborn. I wanted to share this as further evidence that things change, and that what feels so heavy at one moment can recede into hazy memory fairly quickly. It never seems so from the moment when things are hard, but nevertheless it is true.
Several times Ellen has told me how well we seem to be doing. Other people have made similar comments. It has felt doable, sort of normal even, but I don't think we are doing well. Not enough alone time, not enough time as a couple, not enough sex. Not enough anything.
Chris collapses, falling into sleep moments after he gets in bed. I lay awake, my mind spinning. I wish we could talk. I wish he was awake to whisper with me about the funny thing Ada said or how scared we are about getting through the summer months with very little income.
It is rare for Chris to express his fears. He pulls inward when he's under fire. I reach out. He listens, but he doesn't reciprocate.
I am not alone. I have my sister, my parents and friends. I have you. But I want him. I want him to wake up and tell me he's scared and that we'll find a way through this.