I stood in the shower, staring at the wall in front of me. The stream dripping down from above. Drip drip drip.
Across the top of my head. My eyes. My entire face.
Masking the tears.
My hair, soaked. My ears, clouded over. I couldn't hear her anymore. If only for a moment.
I put my head into my hands and sobbed. Heavily. Loud cries. But nobody could hear ME, either. There wasn't anybody listening.
And that was perfect. Just the way I needed it. If only for a moment.
I leaned against the shower wall. Scrubbing at my skin. Tenderly across my scar. The scar, that for me, would forever identify me as a mother.
Motherhood is amazing, I thought. I should be happy. Overjoyed. Thrilled.
And I was. I truly was.
I laughed. Unheard sounds muffled by the water fall I'd created for myself in my own little space. If only for a moment.
I made my way out of the shower. Tucked myself into a towel. Wrapped myself up tight.
With the water turned off I could hear her wailing now. But it was okay. It was going to be okay.
I was refreshed. Re-birthed. Feeling better. Amazing what five minutes in the shower could do for an exhausted new mommy. I took deep breaths.
Opened my eyes. She lay in her pack-n-play, and I lay on the bed, beside her. Just out of reach.
Maybe I'll get to get a shower in when your Daddy gets home, I whispered, picking her up and holding her tightly. I should be able to sneak upstairs ... If only for a moment.
This post was written in response to this week's Red Dress Club prompt (fiction or non-fiction permitted): Water gives life. It also takes it away. My writing this week is a combination of fiction and non-fiction. It's mostly how I remember the early days of motherhood. The rare occasion a shower could refresh me and bring me a reminder of the importance of my life, a new feeling of what motherhood was like, and a break from the tears - hers and mine - that we both needed. I hope my choice of reflection expresses clearly where I was for many a moment, and then some. Thanks for reading. Critiques welcome.