My sweet babe is a month old today. It's bittersweet, really. She smiled at me yesterday. A real smile, so I thought, a whole string of them as I whispered sweet nothings to her. I haven't been granted the same privilege today. I can't help but wonder if it was a fluke. Or maybe that I've been right all along and she really does hate me. I swore this to Jeremy since the day she was born. I'd watch her, Ruby would stare unabashedly at Jer, sheer love in knowing he was here Daddy. Never with me. With me, I'm rarely granted eye contact.
I wish I could freeze time, here, at home, until Jeremy can return. But these early days of three kids, one of them a new born, on my own... I'm utterly overwhelmed at times. I could use him here for physical support, if not only for moral support. My expectations of the big girls are high. My fuse with them is short. I'm pretty sure I'm failing.
I thought I was finished in my woe-is-me wallow fest, but in these late hours, after the kids are all in bed, I can't help but be swept up in the screaming silence.
I've done the dishes. The laundry is running. The floors are being swept in the slowest pattern I can muster.
Tomorrow is one week since he's left. And to be honest, I don't even know what date the boat is supposed to return. One of the downsides to him checking onto the boat and then taking baby leave. He had one week to jump in head first before the boat deployed. Little things were missed, his email address, expected port calls, approximate return date.
At least I now have his email.
I miss him.
I keep reminding myself the first month is brutal. The first week the worst. That means, starting tomorrow, it's only going to go up from here. Right?
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