The sound of my bedroom door creaking slowly open yanks me out of the most delicious dream I’ve ever had. I’m living in Paris with my family and we’re eating crepes and having the best time ever.
Lily tiptoes over to my side of the bed, touches her nose to mine for her morning kiss and tells me that daddy has made pancakes. “With M&M’s in them, Mommy!” She scurries away. I try to focus my eyes on the clock. 9 a.m. Marc let me sleep in. Bless him.
Downstairs, the baby is squawking and belly-crawling all over the kitchen floor. Lily is slurping up her pancakes. Marc mans the stove. The dog licks my knees.
Happy chaos. I smile.
But slowly (ever so freaking slowly), the darkness drifts in. I feel it settling over me as I rock Sophie later that morning. My insides twist up. And, as if the previous couple of hours had never happened, every single little thing starts to bother me.
The baby won’t settle down for her nap. My belly is pooching out over my pants. The house is dirty. Lily is playing too loudly. Doesn’t she know her sister is trying to fall asleep? And Marc. Poor Marc. He bugs me, but I don’t know why. Because I don’t have a reason.
I just feel bad.
I try not to snap at the people I love, but I do. I try not to bang things around as I go about my chores, but I do.
I don’t want to feel this way.
“Let’s go to the store,” I say to Lily, in the most cheery voice I can muster. She agrees, and we set off. I kiss Marc good-bye, promising to be in a better mood when we return. He looks skeptical.
And then it happens.
Lily dances to Adele in the back seat. She makes herself laugh. It’s contagious. We troll Target for all that we need (and some things we definitely don’t need). She hugs me and tells me she loves me, out of the blue.
I smile, and it feels real.
The light beats the dark.
And my heart sings.
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