Tonight, at the dinner table, my husband, told me that Holly had her baby (2nd boy). I couldn’t even respond. I didn’t ask what his name is or how much he weighs. I didn’t ask anything. And it’s not because I wish her baby would die. It’s not that. It’s that I am so incredibly sad that my baby is missing from me.
Over the Thanksgiving holiday weekend, we took Astoria to Magic Kingdom. In the middle of Adventureland, a woman was screaming her child’s name, stretching her neck in an unnatural way, her eyes were frantic, her voice was panicky. I almost started crying.
One day I was attempting to explain the story–Christmas version–of Jesus to Astoria Unfortunately, I couldn’t get past the name Jesus as she kept chanting “Jesus Beezus, Beezus, Jesus.” (We’ve been reading quite a bit of Ramona lately).
At gymnastics practice, a girl slammed her fingers in the door leading from the parent observation room into the gym. The scream silenced the buzz of the observation room. I had a difficult time holding my tears back.
Astoria is recovering from pink eye. Last night I went to the pharmacy to pick up her prescription. The pharmacist asked if she was the only child in the house. Yes. Then he went on to explain that when there are babies in the home, infected with pink eye from school-aged siblings, that’s the bigger concern. Well, at least Corva can’t get pinkeye, I thought to myself wryly.
A few weeks ago, my husband had beers with Holly’s husband. The next morning he remarked “Holly says she misses you.”
And I thought: me too. I miss me too.