Cold, windy and rainy today. Nothing inherently wrong with the weather except that it’s conducive to napping and not much else. Ella didn’t nap today, I could hear her in her room dancing and playing and doing everything but laying down. I, of course, was tucked into my bed with Amelia. Every time I would try to drop off, I would hear her again. I have a problem sleeping when my kids are not. Probably stems from that time that Ella tried to toast her own bagel. I woke up smelling burnt toast and thought I was having a stroke.
I was never really asleep. Kind of in and out. I kept thinking that I heard things…Stephen’s things. I heard his belt buckle jingle like he was getting dressed at the foot of the bed. It was one of the sounds I missed most when he had to quit working. I thought I heard the fan going in the bathroom. I never turn it on because it adds a second light and, really, who needs that much light with this many large pores?
Miss his smell. The smell of gravy and smoked meats. His deodorant and shampoo. I’m sorry that I ever got on his case about taking his socks off inside out and not righting them before getting them into the laundry basket. I should have been happy that he put them there at all. I’m sorry that I grumbled about having to rinse his whiskers out of the sink some mornings and I’m sorry that I hassled him for forgetting that it was trash day.
And I’m sorry that I resented him getting sick. That I was actually frustrated with him for not thinking of me and helping me. I didn’t know. I’m sorry that the words “At least it wasn’t one of the kids” came out of my mouth the week he was diagnosed.
I’d take it all back. Shoulder more. Be stronger. Complain less. Ask for nothing.
Just to make it better. To wake up, fully, and find out that it was all just a bad dream.