I guess I’ll start with the water.
A hot shower is a luxury these days, and the water refocuses my senses when it runs over me, drowning out the noise. I hear the baby cry in the other room, but I know her father has her, and I just need a moment more to wash my feet. The water rushes, and my heartbeat slows.
The baby isn’t crying anymore, and I hear my husband singing. I smile into my vanity mirror which shows me how tired I am and I look away. It’s early, I know I still need to wash the dishes and fold the laundry. There’s a whiskey waiting for me when I finish, so I figure I will. My hair goes up in a sloppy wet bun, as it always does, the comfort of the water long gone. I haven’t been comfortable in a long time, but that’s all I’ll say about that for now.
I remind myself to put on socks, because the floors are always dirty no matter what I do. Walking into our patchwork living room, I see my baby buried in my husband’s beard and I know she’ll need me to sing her to sleep soon so I hurry with the laundry. The dull hum of the television pushes into my head and jumbles my thoughts; I feel as tired as my reflection looked.
The baby makes her sweet sleep sounds, and I carry her to her crib, singing all the songs to which I know the words. She sleeps, and I relax my back for the first time all day. I’m relieved when she sleeps, but I miss her all the same.