The physical normality makes me feel like I should be back to normal emotionally as well. Not the case.
The lost feeling is still here, no less intense. But about 50 percent of the time, it's quiet -- a little more hidden, a little less obvious that a huge part of me is gone... It's like I'm less substantial away from him. A ghost.
He's a bit like fuel. The longer I'm with him, the more full my tank. The longer I'm away, the closer I get to empty. By the time my lunch hour rolls around, I'm getting pretty desperate, and the time with him isn't long enough to take me back to full.
Fridays, when I can't hold him until 6:30 or so at night, I'm pretty well destroyed for most of the day.
What is it that makes it so impossible to be away? It's not like I don't trust Andy or the rest of our family. It's not like I don't realize how incredibly spoiled I am by this arrangement. But I still find myself spending the day obsessing... is he crying right now? Sleeping? Cooing? Thirsty? The root of the problem seems to be that if I were home right now there would be no wondering. So why is "wondering" so terrible, when I'm not actually worried about his care?
Why am I unsatisfied that anyone other than me is meeting his needs?
pooped family on independence dayNote the final novel in the Harry Potter series. I started the first one on the morning I went into labor. Finishing the series this week felt a little like closure. I'm not sure I like it. I kind of feel like picking up book one again. I'd read the Twilight Saga for the twentieth time if it weren't for the fact that Andy would kill me... or worse, burn the books...
From "Impossible" by Shontelle, a song that has been stuck in my head all week.
Tell them all I know now
Shout it from the roof tops
Write it on the sky line
All we had is gone now
Tell them I was happy
And my heart is broken
All my scars are open
Tell them what I hoped would be
Impossible
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