I’m sitting in the basement, listening to my son cry and cry from his bedroom. It is almost ten and he should be asleep but he is awake and exhausted and demanding ice cubes for his water cup. He won’t get the ice cubes because we have rules about these kinds of things as he is become a champion bedtime staller lately. I bent the rules earlier tonight and now it is ten and he is still awake and he just keeps crying.
I think he needs to cry it out. I don’t know. I want to go comfort him but I don’t know if it will help. I mostly just wish he’d stop crying.
My husband is in bed, having been up since, I honestly don’t know, 4am? I hope he is able to get some sleep because I know he needs it so he can get up tomorrow and deal with the kids and get a run in and maybe work on his own writing.
I got home tonight at a little after six and made the kid dinner, gave the baby girl a bath, gave the boy a bath, read him his stories and put him (unsuccessfully it seems) to bed. Meanwhile, Mr. Monkey fed the girl a nighttime bottle and worked to get her to sleep while I got in a 30 minute workout on our exercise bike.
I ironed my clothes for the work day tomorrow and he put the girl to bed and loaded the dishwasher. I’m not sure if he had dinner tonight. I know I didn’t.
He is in with the boy now. I can hear him whispering to him, trying to soothe his crying. I feel guilty for staying down here, trying to get in the 30 minutes of writing time I promised myself before bed. Mr. Monkey and I have spent exactly two minutes alone together today and I hate that it is only Monday and that the rest of the week looks to be a lot like tonight.
I hope that it goes without saying, that it radiates from my writing here, that I adore my children, that my love for them is as constant as my own heartbeat.
But honesty compels me: I really hope it gets easier than this. And I hope that I can figure out how to love my husband well enough through this time when our time is so so so consumed by the two lovelies we’ve created.