The other day the dryer repair man came to our house. I looked down at him on our floor as he pried open the bottom. He was a short fellow, with small hands and no wedding ring. I walked away and burst into tears. Phil came in at that moment.
“What’s wrong? Is the baby okay?” he asked, alarmed.
“Everything is fine,” I said in a hushed tone.
“Then what’s wrong??”
“The dryer man,” I said. “He doesn’t have a wedding ring. What if he is all alone? What if he has no family?”
Phil looked at me, trying to make sense of what I was getting at. Did I know this man from somewhere else? Was he my long lost best friend or something? In other words: What-The-F–k?
I have a hard time explaining how I’m feeling right now, but as abnormal as it sounds, this is all perfectly normal. It’s what hormones and a new baby does to many of moms. My fellow blogger Berit wrote about how many times she’s burst into tears lately. It gives me great comfort not to be alone in my weepy sea of rational–and irrational–emotions.
Emmett is 22 days old. But in so many ways, I feel like he’s always been part of me. The sheer magnitude of love I feel for him and Fi becomes daunting at times. How can my heart stay intact with these two perfect creatures?
This past fall, I wrote about driving home from the hospital with Fia and passing Ground Zero. The reality of bringing a life into the world crashed down on me then. This time is no different. In fact, it may be worse, because now I have two fragile eggs to keep close. Three if you count Phil. Four if you count Wayne.
“What if the dryer guy doesn’t wear a wedding ring because he repairs dryers all day?” Phil said, trying to inject logic into the mind of a neurotic person. Which is like trying to reason with Mahmoud Ahmadinejad.
“Excellent point,” I said, laughing through my tears. “Ignore me. I’m just fragile right now.”
Instead, he hugged me. Then I crawled into bed with Emmett, smelling his skin, his hair, his essence….and took a nap.
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