Ever since I gave myself the arduous (and cathartic) task of blogging for 100 continuous days about my Mom's death and my grieving process, I've become tied to my computer.
I've written and re-written sentences that last two seconds on the screen. I've gotten up at 3 am to review comments on my blog while sitting on the bathroom floor. I've surfed youtube.com for music playlists while making dinner in the kitchen. I've shut the door to my work room and ignored pleas for snacks and play time from my kids just so I could contemplate a recipe or a craft that I had just finished. I've slept with my computer next to me on the nights Dave has been away, only to wake up every few hours to write.
Needless to say, Dave has had enough.
He towered over me last night as I hunched over my laptop, ready to upload yet another photo from my digital camera. When I sensed his presence, I looked up and saw his face. "Not happy" would be an understatement. He was disappointed, a little angry, and, above all, sad. Yes, sad. And this man is NEVER sad. So I did what any other sane person would do: I shut my computer off and followed him into the next room.
For a few hours, I was back home circa May of this year, before all the craziness ensued. We assumed our usual spots on the couch, sat on opposite sides but with our legs tangled in the middle, drank some hot tea, and talked--well, more like I listened, which I really haven't done in months. Dave talked about his work and I followed as best I could (bank stuff goes over my head, wouldn't you know). I let him make me laugh like he used to, silly inside jokes and all. We gossiped about our kids and what's going on in their lives, planning out sports and other activities for them. We discussed vacations and holidays, visits to his family in North Carolina. After I drained a second cup of tea, exhaustion came over me like a warm, fuzzy blanket. Night, night.
I slept last night for almost 8 hours, the most sleep I've gotten in a long, long time.
It's good to take a step back. Thanks, Dave.
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