Clara’s bedtime went down without a hitch; I pumped and fed her a bottle so that I could leave for dinner completely drained, as comfortable as possible, and so that I could make sure she had a good feed so she’d be more liable to have a long stretch of sleep. Tim let Jackie, the babysitter, in while I was putting Clara down. I changed as quietly as possible in our room after placing Clara in her bassinet. I realized that it was only my second or third time putting on a regular bra since I’d given birth, and I could barely squeeze my floppy, freshly drained breasts into it.
I put on a flowy, long-sleeved, short black floral dress—my legs still looked okay, I thought, and the dress pretty much hid all the parts of me that I was self-conscious about. I hurriedly put on a little bit of makeup in the bathroom, but even holding an eyeliner pencil felt awkward. It was like writing your name and the date on a piece of paper on the first day of school after the summer. It just felt wrong. I barely ever made myself up anymore. Gone were the days of taking thirty minutes to get ready for a night out; with Clara already asleep, I was officially on the clock, as we’d have likely no more than three hours until we’d have to be home for her first waking of the night.
“You look great, Mama,” Tim said sweetly as I walked into the kitchen. Jackie and I talked shop for a few minutes—text me if she wakes up; if she cries, let her cry for a minute to see if she’ll fall back asleep on her own before going in and picking her up—and then we were off.
Tim and I were going to the Milling Room, a beautiful restaurant just a few blocks away with a huge skylight and tons of tall plants, so it felt like you were eating outside. I loved their blue cheese olive martinis, and their chicken put every other chicken to shame. Tim held my hand as we walked down Columbus Avenue, but it felt forced. We’d never really been a hand-holding couple, even at our best. Plus, I finally had a minute without another human on my body, out in the fresh October air, walking along unencumbered by a stroller or baby carrier—the last thing I wanted to do was hold hands. But I didn’t want to hurt his feelings or start our night off on a salty note. I didn’t want him to think I was still mad about his call to Isabel, even though I definitely hadn’t let it go. But I needed our night together to be fun, despite everything going on with us.
We were escorted by the hostess to a quiet corner table. Once we were seated, we looked at each other and smiled.
Awkwardly.
No choice but to try to get the elephant out of the room as soon as possible. He began. “Look, again, I am so sorry for calling Isabel. If anything, that should show you the degree to which I have no idea what I’m doing. I may seem uninvolved, but I do care—about you, about Clara, about our family. So much. I know that you’ve been bearing the brunt of caring for her, and it has to be so tough. I can’t imagine. Not to mention, you’re missing your mom. But you are doing an amazing job. Clara’s the luckiest, most well-loved baby ever. And it isn’t fair to you that it’s been so uneven. I want to have a bigger role. And I promise that whatever concerns I have, about anything, I’ll bring them to you first. I’ll never go behind your back again.” He reached across the table for my hand.
It was all I needed to hear. Knowing that he trusted and valued me. That he didn’t think I was doing a crappy job being a mom. If I heard this more, maybe I’d actually start to believe it.
Then again, his kind words also reminded me of what a terrible wife I was. That I didn’t deserve him.
“I am having a hard time, it’s true,” I conceded. “Who knows what’s happening with my hormones. And the lack of sleep makes me feel insane. But it’s only been a few months—you and I are both still learning. We’ll get better. And we both love her, which has to be the most important thing. And I’m sorry that we haven’t had time to talk, and connect . . . I miss you.” Everything I was saying was true, and yet, I felt like such a fraud.
“You already are a good mom, babe. A great one. And you and I are gonna be fine. Please. We’ve got this.” He smiled the crooked smile that made my heart leap.
My eyes welled up. I knew this guy. I loved this guy. We would be okay.
It was then that I saw a familiar face in profile. Connor, Isabel’s husband, was sitting at the bar by himself, drinking an old-fashioned.
I put my hand on Tim’s arm. “See that guy? The one in the white collared shirt at the end of the bar? That’s Isabel’s husband, Connor.”
“Oh wow.” Tim’s face wrinkled, suddenly, as if he’d eaten a bite of lemon. “Kind of weird he’s having dinner out, right? His wife is missing, and he has a newborn at home. What is he doing at a restaurant by himself?”