I didn't get home from work last night until about 9:30. My daughter was still awake, playing in grandma's bed as they waited for me. She was blowing raspberries until she heard me speak, and then whipped her head in my direction. These are the moments that make the long days worth it. Her smiles, her giggles, and those tiny fingers clinging to my hair as she drifts off to sleep. As I laid her down, my mind wandered off to the long days of her growing inside of my belly. I worked up until I was 7.5 months pregnant, and it killed me to sit at home. In the beginning of my leave, I busted my butt cleaning and rearranging to my best abilities. Our son had even started helping when he would come home from school, doing his best to keep me from straining myself. His father, however, did not. As my due date grew closer, we grew further apart he became much more detached. Through those last months, I found myself in and out of the emergency room with various infections, and often left on bed rest. The house was in dire need of attention, but I knew that I could only do so much. I didn't often ask for much from him, because I knew what he would say. "I've been on my feet for 8 hours. I just want to relax." I often got similiar responses in regards to taking his son to school before he went to work. He would fall asleep at 9PM, a vast abyss of untouched space between us in the bed. I would watch Netflix until ungodly hours of the next morning, praying aches would subside long enough for me to fall asleep. I often didn't fall asleep until about 3 AM. I had always been the one to wake up my little monkey, and coerce him into the shower. But once I was on leave, I could barely get out of bed at 7AM. His father often woke me up, demanding to know if I would get him ready and off for school. It wasn't received well on the days I asked to sleep in. There were countless moments of harsh encounters for various situations similiar to these, but there is one that will always be present in my thoughts. My little sister had missed school to take me to the doctors-she lived 3 hours away at the time, but my boyfriend was insistent that he could not miss work. She woke up early (which is a feat in itself) and drove me to my appointment about an hour from home, where I was told that I, yet again, had a UTI. The pain was unbearable. She then took me to get my medication, and brought me home. She stayed with me, waiting on me and took care of some chores for me. The most she allowed me to do was fold laundry when she brought it to me. Once things were caught up, she crawled under the blanket and watched TV with me. On the days that my boyfriend worked, I spent most of my time checking the clock. He woukd be off at 6:15, and was typically home by 6:30 at the very latest. I felt more at ease with my sister, who often spent the night on a mattress we set up in the living room. When he came home, it was well after 7:00PM, which had become a peculiar habit, and he seemed very disgruntled to find us napping in the living room. He sat himself down on the couch behind us, and turned on the TV. the first thing he said to me, some time after he came home, was "What's for dinner?" I immediately got nervous, suggesting some easy meals that he could prepare, and mentioning that the doctor had reccomended I relax until the medicine started doing its job. He laughed, and with disgust in his voice, told me that it was bull shit that he had to come home after 8 hours on his feet so he could cook, clean, and take care of things I should have done during the day. My sister could barely control herself as I broke into tears, and curled back up under the blanket. That was the moment when she decided she would only be civil with him for the sake of my unborn daughter.
