Day 11
Talk about the first time you said “I love you.”
Violet’s barky cough started a few hours ago.
The pediatrician on-call was disturbingly undisturbed, which floored me, because it sounds like she can barely breathe.
The virus, Croup, that causes the distinctive barking sound is common during the winter months.
He said it affects infants more obviously because of their narrower airways.
The treatment, provided there aren’t retractions when she inhales, is cold air—something about vasoconstriction and relaxing the muscles in the neck.
“The doctor did suggest we could open the freezer door and hold her in front of it,” he says as he navigates the stroller around a bush that extends into the sidewalk.
“And how long could we sustain that? This will be better.”
“Is the plan to walk all night, or…?”
“Let’s stay outside until her stridor goes away or her breathing seems less labored. I can stay up if I need to,” I reply.
The reality of parenthood is that no two days are the same. You might find yourself engaging in mutual masturbation one night and then pacing in the dark with a sick kid the next. This switching between realities gives me whiplash sometimes. I never know which version of Molly will be called up.
“If we’re doing this for a while, should we tackle the next card? I brought it with me,” Daniel says.
It’s a welcome surprise every time he takes ownership to keep this experiment going.
“But what if it’s more naked stuff?” I ask. “I’m not willing to strip when it’s thirty-eight degrees out here.”
“The physical prompts seem to be every other day. I bet tonight’s will be a discussion card.”
He takes his phone and the card out of the pocket, turns on the flashlight, and reads.
“Oh, this is no problem. Talk about the first time you said “I love you.” See, told you—no nudity. Maybe tomorrow; let’s hope the trend continues.” He bumps his shoulder into mine with a chuckle.
Violet interrupts the moment with another forceful cough. I wince and then check on her, this precious little girl who could not be less interested in sleeping even though it’s two hours past bedtime. I’m praying the cold air and the movement will relax her enough to pass out.
“I know we said I love you the same day,” Daniel offers, “but I’m not sure who went first. Maybe you?”
“Definitely me. I kept waiting for you to say it, and I had this stupid idea based on gender roles that I shouldn’t say it before you. So I waited, and waited, and when you weren’t saying it, I snapped. I couldn’t keep it in any longer.”
“Ah, you’re right. It was my apartment on Jefferson with the green suede sofa. You had convinced me to watch How I Met Your Mother—thank you for that, by the way; excellent taste on your part—and pretty soon we were making out.”
“That always seemed to be the natural conclusion when we were at that apartment,” I reply with a laugh that tickles my nose.
“The memory of that night is really clear for me. You were laying down and I was between your legs, and I pulled away from the kiss and blurted it. The moment after felt frozen while I waited for you to say something.”
“Kind of like when you didn’t say yes to my proposal for nine whole seconds while I was down on my knee?”
I roll my eyes, though it’s too dark for him to see it. “Come on!” I say, “I was shocked and overwhelmed. My yes came out as quickly as it could.”
“And I said I love you almost immediately after you did. In your relief, you collapsed on top of me which felt like a great outcome on my end.” He brings a gloved hand to grasp mine, still pushing the stroller with the other.
“It’s funny, because I remember feeling petulant that you said it so quickly. I thought it meant you were ready. And if you were ready, why didn’t you say it first?”
“Wait, wait, wait,” he says as he stops walking and turns to look at me. The moon casts his face in shadow. “You just said you had to wait for me to respond, and now you’re saying I answered too quickly? You’re a walking contradiction.”
“I won’t argue with that. Imagine living inside this brain. It’s scary sometimes.”
“It’s a creative, complex, silly, and beautiful brain, and also my favorite. Don’t be rude to it.”
“No promises,” I reply. I peek over the canopy to look at Violet and find she’s finally, gloriously asleep.
“Mission accomplished,” I say to Daniel.
He tips his face to see her and a smile creeps up his cheeks.
“What do you think those kids on the green couch would say about us now?” he asks. “I think they’d be horrified we moved to the suburbs.” It’s accompanied by a laugh that he quickly quiets.
“You would’ve spent the last eight years in mourning if you’d known the gray was coming for your hair this early,” I answer.
He huffs in agreement. “Sometimes it’s hard to believe those people were us, and that we grew into this version. I think they’d be proud that we figured it out.”
“Have we figured it out?” I ask.
“I think we’re closer than we’ve been, and that feels like more than enough.”
As we round the corner to our street, I let his words linger. We are closer than we’ve been. As silly and frustrating as these daily cards are, we’ve had more honest communication and more freely-given affection in the past week and a half than in the past year.
“I think you’re right.”