It’s Week 3. My husband the graduate student is out of touch. Real life has hit home. The hormones have plummeted. I find myself having a very post-partum conversation with my absentee husband as we cross paths at 2am (me on my way out of bed to nurse, him on his way in from studying): “This might be a bad time to tell you that I misread my sylabus and next week’s not my last week.” he says, getting straight to the point as he slides into bed. Silence, followed by this tearful threat from the crazy, needy, sleep-deprived wife: “If you don’t take tomorrow off, either I will die or one of your children will die.” Talk about dramatic. At least by the third child I am not anticipating that my husband tune in between pillow-subdued snores to mysubtle sniffling. Stunned silence follows. Then a quick phonecall to the subfinder is made. Later, he tells me he remembers me to have said ” . . .or our marriage is over,” which I am quite sure I never said, but evidently the emotive message was strongly conveyed.
After a good sleep - a few hours of childcare relief and breakfast in bed - I don’t feel quite so despairing. I even take a shower, ridding myself of my really obnoxious nursing-mom BO and sour milk smell, and put on some maternity jeans. Since it is now one day closer to Friday, I am feeling more optimistic about life. I might actually live to the weekend.
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