When we first brought the Tyrant home it rained for three days straight. I remember Dork Dad standing at the window with him whispering, “This is the rain. Mommy loves rainy days”.
It’s true. I always have. Rainy Sundays are my favorite things in the universe, but pretty much any rainy day is good. It’s an excuse to curl up on the couch with a book when you get home from work instead of going to the gym or to spend the whole day cooking something that it takes a whole day to cook.
Those first few rainy days seemed like a gift from God or the Universe saying, “You just sit there and love that little man. Permission granted.” I don’t remember putting him down really ever… I would pass him off to his Grammy or Pop Pop (Dork Dad’s parents) or his MeMe (my mom) or DD, of course. But most of the time I was just sitting there, staring at him, cuddling him and kissing his perfect cheeks, his perfect nose, his perfect tiny toes.
I can remember those feelings the same way you remember a movie you saw. I can see it and hear it, but I can’t feel it. It’s gone. Last night Dork Dad took the night shift and I got two huge chunks of sleep, broken only by pumping and storing time. When I woke up this morning I don’t know why I expected things to be better – maybe some part of me thought that I wasn’t actually sick, that maybe it really was just sleep deprivation.
Dork Dad is curled up on the couch, Tiny Tyrant is sacked out in the pack and play and I’m sitting here, with a view of both of them listening to the rain on the skylights, staring at it as it sheets down from the roof of our neighbor’s house. Maybe if I went and stood in the rain it would wash me clean. This grey fog would be stripped away and I could feel again. The anxiety and fear and pain, the numbness and ennui would be replaced drop by drop with cool clear water and I could be baptized into my old life again.
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