My husband has been telling me for the last few days about Bridget's smile. How cute and lovely and sweet it is.
"It's just gas," I told him, shooing him away. "Those involuntary reflex things."
It had to be. Because I hadn't seen it yet.
But he insisted that it was a real smile.
And yesterday, when he was holding her, I saw it.
She smiled at him.
And it was indeed quite cute, lovely, and sweet. Everything that I had imagined it would be. Except I hadn't even really imagined it.
I haven't had time to think, let alone picture my now near one month old's smile.
"I wonder why she hasn't smiled at me," I asked, my eyes welling up.
He didn't sugar coat things.
"You're just so grouchy all the time," he said, jokingly.
But it still hurt. Because he's right.
I haven't smiled much lately.
I wear the same five articles of clothing because they are the only ones that fit. Showering is the very last thought on my mind.
I eat half eaten sandwiches, nearly empty cold bowls of soup.
I do what I can to get by and then guiltfully sigh with relief when my husband takes the kids or the babysitter comes.
And then I work, clean, cook, repeat - all with a baby attached to me.
If these early months were ever romantic, they've worn out their welcome by the fourth time around.
There's no time to stare lovingly into your baby's eyes. Or coo at them. Or try to get them to smile.
And then I have to wonder if maybe she hasn't smiled at me because I'm not smiling back.