Subtitle: Maybe Boys Can Be Taught!
Sunday morning, I went into the bedroom to wake J up (our morning routine), and I ended up crawling under the covers to snuggle with him for a minute. I had spent Saturday at my friend T’s house, helping her with the new baby. (Yes, blatant excuse to cuddle new baby––any new baby will do––but she was grateful, as she hadn’t washed her hair in a week. Careful what you wish for, right? Wrong. I still wish. I wish hard.)
So J asked me how yesterday had gone and I said it was great, but that I still ached inside. “I just wish infertility didn’t hurt so much,” I said.
“I know,” he murmured softly, and then he added the magic words, “me too.”
I wonder if he knows how much that “me too” meant to me? For that moment, it was us against the world again, and I felt less empty on the inside, less alone.I think maybe, in all of my ranting at him, some of it has gotten through. I think it was deliberate—he gave me a little, just a little, to let me know we were in this together. Anyway, it was nice.