Sometimes No Words Are the Best Words

I fell in love with my husband a little bit more deeply the other night.

Four more days until I have to go back to work. Just when I think I've gotten to the point of being okay with it, of feeling like the situation we've got set up is an ideal scenario in a less than ideal situation, I get a wave of sadness pass through me, knocking me off my feet and making my head spin. Then, I dig my feet into the ground, stubbornly refusing to believe it's actually happening. And then I realize that the arrangement we have is a very good one, considering the fact that I have to go back to work at all, and I'm thankful for it.

But two nights ago, I was hit hard with the realization that this is really happening, that I'm really going back to work, and I really will be taking Addie to daycare. It's not that I have anything against daycare; it's necessary for so many people, and I know there are some amazingly wonderful folks who spend their lives caring for children such as mine. But it breaks my heart that I won't be the one to care for, nurture, and play with Addie. It's watching the death of my lifelong dream, in some ways.

And as I rocked my little girl to sleep, tears began to pour down my cheeks. Her little eyes locked on mine, smiling at me just moments before, suddenly looked worried, like she knew something was wrong with me. Where did your smiles go, Mama? I could hear her asking through those deep blue eyes. And in those deep blue eyes I saw my sadness welled up, as if my tears collected in them like little puddles on the sidewalk.

Perhaps my preoccupation was contagious that night; Addie wouldn't go to sleep easily, her quizzical look frozen on her face as I swayed back and forth beside her crib. My back began to ache, so I pulled myself together, wiped my tears onto the shoulder of my sweatshirt, and went out to the living room to rock her in the rocking chair. I sat down, feeling my body fold within itself, trying to keep the tears from bubbling up to the surface again. Joey asked if I was ok, to which I responded that I didn't want to talk about it right then. Tears feel private to me, and my dad and brother were in the room just then. And yet, Joey knew.

A few minutes later, the tears wouldn't wait. I excused myself to our room, Addie in tow, and broke down as soon as I was behind the safety of our door. Silent tears are the most intense for me, and a silent cry it was. Moments later I felt Joey behind me; he put his hands on my shoulders and asked if I was upset about Monday, the day I'd have to go back to work. All I did was nod and cry just a little bit harder as I swayed back and forth, rocking my baby to sleep.

He rubbed my shoulders, let me cry, and somehow made me feel a little bit better, just by being there with me. Nothing changed. Nothing will change. But in that moment, I felt seen, and I felt like my feelings were recognized. Sometimes Joey's had the attitude of "we've got to make the best of it, even though it sucks." It's true, and I've been trying to do just that. But there's a deep sadness that makes my bones ache, a sadness that I'm not sure he understood before now. He may not feel exactly the way I feel, but that night told me that he understands how real it is to me. And that's enough, for now.

He pulled me close when we went to bed that night, stroked my hair as I laid on his chest, tears silently sliding down my nose and cheeks. Sometimes saying nothing is better than saying something. Sometimes just holding someone close and letting them cry validates their feelings better than words ever   could. It says, I see you, and how you feel matters. I don't know how to fix it, but I will be here with you while your heart hurts like this. I will comfort and protect you.

Nothing changed that night. My heart didn't change, the situation didn't change, my outlook didn't change. I'm still sad, a kind of sad I've never known before. But somehow, I know it'll be ok. Somehow.