After dinner this evening, as we were all sitting around the table chatting, Arabis looked at Mojo and clearly signed "More milk." We were shocked. Did she mean it, or was she just playing with her hands? So Mojo asked her if she wanted gatig (Armenian for milk - this is the word we actually use) and she repeated the signs.
So I gave her a bottle. She was happy as a little clam. I'm amazed. And surprisingly pleased.
Tonight at dinner, Mojo said he contacted a woman who was a "Mother's Helper" and was checking references. If they worked out, he was going to hire her for one morning or day a week to come and help me out. And I, like the silly woman I am, started crying, because my first thought was "I've failed." I've worked in museums, bought merchandise for national retail stores, coordinated huge corporate events for thousands of guests, have published poetry, run a successful business and taught hundreds of people to sea kayak...but I can't raise a baby and keep a house. Where did this come from? What the hell am I channeling?
"This is not the reaction I was expecting," he said.
Maybe if he'd asked me and discussed it with me before he just went ahead and did it, I would feel grateful. I am trying to accept that it is not a failure. That I never had the chance to properly "nest" and get the house ready prior to giving birth (bedrest due to preeclampsia) and afterward it was impossible (recovery from emergency c-section, inability to breastfeed and intense post-partum depression).
But I hate the disorder we're currently living in and I am unable to combat it alone.
Perhaps after I sleep tonight (if I sleep tonight) I will have a better perspective on everything tomorrow.
Still much to ponder and relate after the funeral, but I haven't the ovarian fortitude to tackle it right now. I pray for sleep. There is nothing worse than insomnia on top of sleep deprivation.