This afternoon B and I met some friends at a local park, then headed to a pizza restaurant for dinner. These friends are from a new moms class I took when B was just a few weeks old, when we bonded over the challenges of nursing, napping, and whether or not to sleep train. We used to have a fairly frequent park play date on Friday afternoons, and I would always call T as B and I were driving home, letting him know we were on our way. After he died, I still went to those play dates, as I NEEDED the companionship, but heading home anticipating an empty house, having no one to call, knowing no one cared where we were and when we'd be home, was excruciating.
Tonight I felt an echo of that pain. It was great to spend time with my friends, I'm happy to see B getting more interested in other kids and start developing some rudimentary social skills, and it didn't even bother me when the conversation drifted into "how my husband does/doesn't help with the kids/house". But heading home to an empty house still stinks.
I know that feeling. I heart and mind almost always reaches for the phone at 4:30 every day on the way home from work. Then, I remember. It hurts everytime.
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