So, you know that feeling, when you are miserable, because you are sick, and you've snuggled into your bed, and you feel like if you move, you'll lose your comfy snuggly nest you made for yourself? Which nest is extra comfy and snuggly because a rolly polly baby is happily shredding Kleenex while lying beside you? Or he is practicing standing, or sitting and trying again and again to pick up those tricky little pieces of Kleenex he made, which look so interesting.
But your four year old is in the other room, and you haven't heard from her in forever, and you know you need to check on her. Not because she is getting into trouble, no you turned on the TV for her, and she is probably happily watching her shows. But you are deathly afraid that something has happened to her, and if you go into that room, you will find that something has happened, and how will you face that, again?
So you call and call, and she doesn't answer, and the baby starts to cry, possibly from the sorrow in your voice. And you need to see and hear her, so you finally you throw back your warm covers, and heft your rolly polly baby with your tired and achy arms, and go into the other room, where your four year old is munching on crackers, since it is diner time and she got hungry, and you chide her for not answering.
Do you ever feel that way? Or is it just me?
I wrote this a while ago, when William was little, probably about 7 months old. Which was a hard month for me, because he had just passed the age that Tabitha was when she died. But, the scene could have played out at any time, until he was a year old. About a week after William's first birthday, I commented to Dan that the constant terror was finally gone. And, that is probably the best way to sum up how I felt the first year of William's life. Constant terror.
