Rolling out of bed, baby in my arms, it’s 10am.
We didn’t sleep, he knew that, and he left us in bed.
The floor is swept, the bin is empty.
I smile, those small things tell silently that he loves me.
I put on my dressing gown.
I know we will mostly be alone today, and while others find that notion worrying, I am quietly grateful.
I’m making hot, strong coffee and she is in her chair.
I take my vitamins and check on the weather, it’s raining, but I don’t mind.
She quietly plays with the peanut butter lid and the contour set that I will never use.
I’m putting down the toast, warming up her bottle and mentally running through my day.
I drag the high chair to the bathroom door to avoid screaming, and she happily watches me pee.
I wash my hands and glance at my Fitbit for the time, looking up to see her grinning at me in the mirror.
We eat our breakfast together.
I sip my coffee, she plays with toys covered in margarine.
A podcast plays in the background, the pans prepped with potatoes and veg for lunch bubble on low.
We suit and boot and go for a walk. Humid, but enjoyable.
She sleeps now and I put out lunch.
He returns home and we talk genetics and history, fingers up bums.
We laugh as we talk about the kids and their quirks.
Hugs and a kiss.
1pm rolls around and he’s gone again.
In the quiet I do my homework and sip more coffee.
I piece together sentences about Swedish advertisements and hope they’re correct.
I peek through the window, she sleeps still.
I finish up my writing and sit in the silence, beautiful silence.
Breathing in deep, I give quiet thanks for my new life.
Safe. Happy. Loved.