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I spent the all day Wednesday cuddling my baby on the couch as she pressed through a fever of 103. It's been a week of whiney drool and restless dogs, tylenol and cuddles. A week of so much to complain about, a week of trying not to complain. When it rains it pours.
A week of general by-myselfness as my love sleeps in a hotel across the country. A week of starting out on track, then being derailed by unexpected phlegm and boogers from little miss grumpelstiltskin. Lonely, sometimes helpless in the darkest hours of night, I've counted down the hours until he returns from his week away.
Still. The house is still. The baby sleeps. The house hums. The fans turn. I think back on earlier this evening when my little girl took a break from the ick and took three steps on her own for the first time. I had looked around the room to see if anyone else saw it, but no one could verify that I had just seen what I thought I had seen. I told her dad in a text message. I think about all the things I was going to do this week. How I was going to be a rock star.
Desperate, scratchy cries call from the baby monitor. I tiptoe downstairs dutifully, lovingly. She will not be alone in her room, in her misery. I am not alone in this house. There is no room for lonely.
