Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 114192 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114192 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Three years ago
“I hate teething,” I say and the groan that accompanies my statement comes complete with my eyes closed and a hand over my face as Robert comes in through the front door. Slowly opening them, I speak over Bridget’s wail. “I hate it more than I hate heartburn.”
Seriously, I’d take that awful pregnancy heartburn and a bottle of Tums over my baby girl’s teeth coming in. My right leg constantly bounces with her settled on my thigh and clinging to my arm.
At the sight of Robert, she cries louder, as if I’ve been unable to hear her all night and only he can save her.
The prick at the back of my eyes comes back. “I don’t know what to do,” I admit to him.
“Give her here, maybe I can calm her down,” he offers and I give her up.
“Orajel,” I start to rattle off, “strips of frozen waffles …”
“You’ve got all the teething toys out,” Robert says and all of the primary- and pastel-colored rubbery toys on the seat next to me are evidence of that.
“She doesn’t like them.”
“What about … a cold rag?” he asks and I remember I threw one in the freezer last week. It’s just a little washcloth, dipped in water and frozen. Please, Lord, let that be my lifesaver because I can’t take much more of this.
Hustling to the freezer, I snag it and toss it to him. He catches it with one hand and offers it to a screaming Bridget who arches her back with complete distaste.
My heart plummets but Robert assures me, “Give me five.”
Five minutes. He can have all the five minutes he needs.
“Teething is a bitch,” I say as I rub my eyes and make my way back to the kitchen. With the perfectly good pan of untouched lasagna staring back at me from the stovetop, I realize I haven’t even eaten dinner. How is it already nine at night?
“Ooh, shots fired.”
“What?”
“You must be really worked up,” he tells me, swinging little Bridget to and fro in large circles back and forth, “You’re cussing like a sailor.”
The flame of a blush brightens my cheeks. “Oh, hush,” I say, waving him off although he’s right. I don’t like cussing. Doesn’t mean I don’t do it my head, though; I was just raised not to.
I mutter under my breath as I open the top of the lasagna and touch it only to find it cold, “Teething is a bitch, though.”
It’s at that thought I realize she’s not crying anymore. Holding my breath, I peek over the threshold and watch Robert still swinging Bridgey, but now she’s got both of her hands on the rag, gnawing away.
“Yesssss.” My hiss of happiness makes Robert laugh and I still in my victory crouch, waiting to make sure his laugh didn’t disturb her.
After a solid five seconds, I’m convinced it didn’t and more grateful than Robert will ever know.
Sometimes a mom just needs a break.
“You are my hero,” I whisper, my hands in a prayer position.
“I’m glad you texted me,” he says, slowing down his swings to be more gentle.
As I’m wondering if she’ll let me give her a bottle this time since she refused her last feeding, Robert suggests I go to bed.
“You look like you need some sleep,” he adds.
The last thing I want to do after the day I’ve had is go to bed. I need a moment. I don’t know how to describe it to him. Because he’s right, I’ve barely slept the last two nights, but I just need to be … to be me for a moment. And to know everything is all right.
Without answering him, I make a bottle and take a steadying breath.
“You’re starting to resemble a raccoon,” he jokes.
“They’re my new favorite animal,” I say, shaking the bottle with my finger on the nipple. When I get back to the living room, he’s preparing to sit down with her and it makes me nervous.
“Pass it on over,” he offers with his hand out. Bridget’s still going to town on that little washcloth and that’s when I realize I should prepare another.
Handing off the bottle, I practically run to the hall closet to find a clean washcloth and do with it just what I did with the other. Run it under the water, wring it out, and place it in my freezer.
My stomach rumbles, so after wiping off my hands on my pajama pants, I place the lasagna back in the oven.
“Did you eat?” I ask Robert, hopeful he didn’t so I can pay him back with a meal at least.
“I could eat,” he answers from the sofa, one hand on the bottle, the other slyly reaching for the remote. “Seriously, I can hang out with little miss until she sleeps if you want to sleep.”
“I don’t want to sleep, I just need a minute to decompress …”