paper across the desk. “We have a la carte options,
you know.”
This
is akin to ordering the four-pound sirloin at a Texas steak joint and being
offered the rib-eye instead.
“We’ll
take the warrior package,” Tim reiterates.
I
don’t feel much like a warrior, but I’m inclined to agree: We’re not dead yet.
Tim
shells out the cash, and I lose myself in the exhaustive safety literature.
Then we split up—each to our respective locker rooms—where I don the yoga pants
and baggy tee my husband has so thoughtfully prepared.
Ten
weeks out from delivery, I’m feeling better than expected—physically, at least.
My mental state is another matter.
“So
where do we start?” I ask when we meet near the rock wall. From the sign over the
check-in desk, I know that, as adventure warriors, we have two hours of
unlimited access.
Tim
gives the wall a solid thump. “How about right here?”
“Work
our way up?” I say, literally and figuratively; rock climbing is the least
intimidating activity here.
“Precisely.”
I’d
rather Tim goes first, but then again, I shun the responsibility. “What do I
do?” I ask, locking my fingers with one of the floor-level holds.
He
grins and playfully slaps my ass. “Get in line.”
----
If
there were a way to injure oneself with cotton candy, I’d find it without
trying. “My neck hurts,” I tell Tim on the way home.
It’s
obvious he is still on an adrenaline high, this outing having satisfied two of
his great passions: fitness and engineering.
“But
you had fun, right?” he asks, pushing the complaint aside.
I
reach across my chest and massage my shoulder. “Yeah. We should do that sort of
thing more often.”
He
lets the comment hang for maybe a whole minute before saying, “I miss you.”
The
words are so honest and tender they catch me. And I know what he means. We see
each other every day, and yet there are places in him I seldom touch anymore,
places he seldom reaches in me.
But
we want to.
“With
the baby…” I say. “And work…”
He
requires no excuses. “I know.” He nestles his hand into the crease of my thigh.
There
is no need for me to say more, the understanding between us complete. I close
my eyes and try to force this neck pain, whatever its source, from my body. If
it doesn’t move now, it’s set to pave the way for a killer migraine I can
already feel backing in.
In
no time, Tim nudges me. “We’re home.”
I
inhabit the hazy space between wakefulness and sleep. “Uh-huh,” I groan.
“Come
on. It’s late,” he says. “Jenna’s waiting.”
Some
things rouse me from slumber better than others, the thought of my less-than-maternal
colleague at the end of her rope with my colicky infant among the former. “Be
right there,” I say, but Tim is too far gone to hear. Before my feet hit the
garage floor, he shoulders the door open and heads inside. I think he has
missed Owen even more than I have, a notion that plagues me with dread.
By
the time I catch up, Tim is already helping Jenna on with her coat. “How was
it?” I ask her, still groggy.
She
appears somewhat haggard, but happy and at ease. “Great,” she says. She
gestures toward Ally, who is curled up at the end of the sofa, a teddy bear for
a pillow. “We had a blast.”
“What
about the baby?” I wonder. “Any problems?”
She
shakes her head. “He only woke up once. Sound sleeper, that one.”
I
am relieved and finally satisfied. “Thanks,” I say. Once again, I notice that Muffin
is nowhere to be found. I glance around as if there’s some way I could have
missed him, but come up empty.
Tim
says to Jenna, “Can I walk you out?” It’s a formality not required in this
neighborhood, yet he always offers.
And
she accepts. “See you Monday,” she says over her shoulder, with a smile that
strikes me as too upbeat for this time of night.
I
struggle to mirror her pep. “Thanks again. You’re the best.”
----
The
narcotics I’ve procured
you know.”
This
is akin to ordering the four-pound sirloin at a Texas steak joint and being
offered the rib-eye instead.
“We’ll
take the warrior package,” Tim reiterates.
I
don’t feel much like a warrior, but I’m inclined to agree: We’re not dead yet.
Tim
shells out the cash, and I lose myself in the exhaustive safety literature.
Then we split up—each to our respective locker rooms—where I don the yoga pants
and baggy tee my husband has so thoughtfully prepared.
Ten
weeks out from delivery, I’m feeling better than expected—physically, at least.
My mental state is another matter.
“So
where do we start?” I ask when we meet near the rock wall. From the sign over the
check-in desk, I know that, as adventure warriors, we have two hours of
unlimited access.
Tim
gives the wall a solid thump. “How about right here?”
“Work
our way up?” I say, literally and figuratively; rock climbing is the least
intimidating activity here.
“Precisely.”
I’d
rather Tim goes first, but then again, I shun the responsibility. “What do I
do?” I ask, locking my fingers with one of the floor-level holds.
He
grins and playfully slaps my ass. “Get in line.”
----
If
there were a way to injure oneself with cotton candy, I’d find it without
trying. “My neck hurts,” I tell Tim on the way home.
It’s
obvious he is still on an adrenaline high, this outing having satisfied two of
his great passions: fitness and engineering.
“But
you had fun, right?” he asks, pushing the complaint aside.
I
reach across my chest and massage my shoulder. “Yeah. We should do that sort of
thing more often.”
He
lets the comment hang for maybe a whole minute before saying, “I miss you.”
The
words are so honest and tender they catch me. And I know what he means. We see
each other every day, and yet there are places in him I seldom touch anymore,
places he seldom reaches in me.
But
we want to.
“With
the baby…” I say. “And work…”
He
requires no excuses. “I know.” He nestles his hand into the crease of my thigh.
There
is no need for me to say more, the understanding between us complete. I close
my eyes and try to force this neck pain, whatever its source, from my body. If
it doesn’t move now, it’s set to pave the way for a killer migraine I can
already feel backing in.
In
no time, Tim nudges me. “We’re home.”
I
inhabit the hazy space between wakefulness and sleep. “Uh-huh,” I groan.
“Come
on. It’s late,” he says. “Jenna’s waiting.”
Some
things rouse me from slumber better than others, the thought of my less-than-maternal
colleague at the end of her rope with my colicky infant among the former. “Be
right there,” I say, but Tim is too far gone to hear. Before my feet hit the
garage floor, he shoulders the door open and heads inside. I think he has
missed Owen even more than I have, a notion that plagues me with dread.
By
the time I catch up, Tim is already helping Jenna on with her coat. “How was
it?” I ask her, still groggy.
She
appears somewhat haggard, but happy and at ease. “Great,” she says. She
gestures toward Ally, who is curled up at the end of the sofa, a teddy bear for
a pillow. “We had a blast.”
“What
about the baby?” I wonder. “Any problems?”
She
shakes her head. “He only woke up once. Sound sleeper, that one.”
I
am relieved and finally satisfied. “Thanks,” I say. Once again, I notice that Muffin
is nowhere to be found. I glance around as if there’s some way I could have
missed him, but come up empty.
Tim
says to Jenna, “Can I walk you out?” It’s a formality not required in this
neighborhood, yet he always offers.
And
she accepts. “See you Monday,” she says over her shoulder, with a smile that
strikes me as too upbeat for this time of night.
I
struggle to mirror her pep. “Thanks again. You’re the best.”
----
The
narcotics I’ve procured
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