I tried to keep things as normal as I could for the girls. We just about never stopped. Besides getting mastitis three times in the first three months after he left, I just kept moving forward and maintaining normalcy. We did all the same things we did before and continued to have park dates, play dates and adventures.
Despite my inward turmoil and utter shock and devastation, I let adrenaline run fast and I followed in it’s fumes.
The hardest part though was realizing my husband would no longer be coming home.
I can’t exactly put my finger on why, but something about bath time coupled with the actual reality of putting both girls down by myself, forever, terrified me more than anything.
I feared that both children wouldn’t feel like they were getting enough of me. That they weren’t getting that special alone time or one on one time with mommy. I was afraid that someone would always be getting the shorter stick. I was afraid that one child would drown in the tub while I diapered and jammied the other. I was afraid that I couldn’t do it. That I wasn’t capable or enough. That somehow everything would fall apart and I’d fail and my girls would end up feeling like they were lacking.
One of the hardest parts was the questions from my newly two year old. They were constant and coupled with so many tears, as her little voice continually asked where her daddy was and when he was coming home. “Will dada sing me sleep ‘morrow mama.” Inner rage and devastation would battle each other in my chest while tears would pour down my cheeks at the innocence of her questions and the confusion that was taking place inside her little spirit. No words could have possibly answered those heartbreaking inquiries from a baby girl missing her daddy. I felt angry, devastated and unsure how to help that growing hole in her heart from devouring her completely.
I loved my sweet girl more than life itself but I was so incredibly aware of the fact that I wasn’t her daddy.
That would begin the cycle. The downward, face first, free-fall into anger and fear and questioning how we’d ever find our stride again.
I am a big fan of God’s plan. I would have (and still would) stand on a pulpit and declare how important a two parent household is for children and that my goal as a parent is to model for my children the love of God through the way we love each other and them. I believed that marriage was for better or for worse and that my feelings were not the dictator on my commitment to my marriage. I just had no clue that the man who had pledged those same things to me, would so quickly change his mind.
And the worst part was I now had a two year old wondering where her daddy was and a four month old unaware that she had one.
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
Tonight as I bathed the girls and got them ready for bed, I couldn’t help but think back on those first few days and weeks on my own. Our nighttime routine has become like a finely oiled machine and I am more than capable of doing it all by myself. There is still a piece of me that selfishly wishes for that break or the ability to tag team the responsibilities. But at the end of the day, I am getting the cuddles, I am experiencing all those firsts, I am getting the laughs and the trust and the intimacy and the beauty of every single experience and moment. And I don’t have to share it.
Am I tired? …Hahaha constantly… always!
Am I overwhelmed? Uhhh yea, just about All the time.
Do I get much time to myself? Haha not really, no.
But I am one proud mama raising two of the sweetest girls. The plan I had for my life was clearly not one that God also shared. And at the end of the day, I have my girls and that’s all that really matters.