I
sat down to e-mail my husband last week. It is my little, daily ritual that sometimes makes me feel like I’m keeping a teenage diary again.
After all, it’s largely a one-way conversation. Often it is weeks, sometimes months, before I get a reply.
We had our second baby last month. Two whole days after our due date, in fact.
I spent February doing almost nothing but anticipating our second daughter’s birth.
She was just four days old, nursing in my lap, and I was on the phone with our FRG president discussing ways to help another wife who had had a baby the same day as me.
I’ve been fighting it for a while.
And then, at one of those lazy, stay-in-pajamas Saturday breakfasts, my husband said it.
“I really hope the baby comes soon. I want to get as much time with her as possible.”
Crash. My husband just brought our idyllic, eggs-and-bacon morning down around my very pregnant head.
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