Tourist

I write this, sat on the floor on the landing in my house, with only the backlight of my iPad giving me sight. My husband lies asleep in our bed on his own; our daughter lies in her cot, awake and gurgling. My husband is poorly, and the combination of baby monitor noise, lamp switching on and off, and me getting in and out of bed isn’t helping. Bless him! I hate it when he is ill.

I have a sudden realisation that I do not know this woman. This woman is one who begrudgingly gives up a Saturday lie-in, and rejoiced when morning church moved back 30 minutes. This woman is one who loves to be comfortable in bed, and who dislikes anyone who ruins that. This woman is one who throws death stares at her husband when he so much as rolls over too loudly whilst she is nursing their daughter.

I’d like to think this is a permanent shift in who I am, that I am somehow becoming more selfless. But I know this isn’t a state of permanency. One day, probably a long way from now, my daughter will not need me at night, and I will once again become the woman who puts sleep and comfort above all other priorities in the home.

This woman is not a permanent resident, she is merely a tourist.

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