It's Never Just Goodbye // Ed Sheeran

No Wonder Why

Alice

He’s eight months old. His huge green eyes staring up at me with a breathless kind of look. He’s on the floor, a Disney story book in front of him. Something grandma must’ve bought him for Christmas. This is the first hour of the day where he’s smiled. A tooth painfully coming in on the bottom of his mouth.

Oscar’s at work – some place he found in the paper writing for an article. He works from the morning into the night. Days I spend cleaning and playing with Finley, then cooking dinner. Oscar waltzing through the door at a different time every night with an apologetic look as he swiftly kisses my cheek.

“I’m sorry.” He says as I warm up his meal. Every night. I like routine, so he gives it to me.

I’m a mother now and it’s hard to understand. To see me in the mirror bathroom adjacent to the bathtub where I bathe Finley. Looking up to see a pale, slightly chubby me is what I hate most about bath time.

I used to worry about how I presented myself – how my hair was done, the makeup I wore, and the need for a shower every day. Now I’m faced with the cold, hard facts. The care for the way I look didn’t matter once I had Finley.

Dressing a certain way, shopping for myself, didn’t really happen anymore. Wondering how Kim and James are doing was the last thing on my mind. Hell, jealousy of my old friends was in the past.

After the wedding, I felt only love for the two. Cutting my hair was now the normal. Dressing in pajama pants and a t-shirt was the only way I knew how to dress.

Now, he was the center of my world. Worrying about losing his tiny socks in the washer, considering how expensive they were the more you replaced them, was the thing that seemed to stress me out the most lately. The “having only ten minutes to get ready” thing hit me hard, but I deal with it.

I don’t sob about the lack of a life I have now or how I can’t see my friends as much. I don’t complain that I can’t go out and have a drink. Instead, I ultimately cry the hardest over the fact I have to cut my child’s nails and accidently making him bleed.

I rest my head on the arm of the couch and watch him. Eyes heavy as I try to keep them open. I thank God every day that he’s sleeping through the night. Yet, the six in the morning wake up calls are still hard.

He crawls across the living room floor and stops in front of the TV stand. Slowly, unsteadily, he pulls himself to his feet. Holding onto the stand for his dear life until he knows he’ll be okay. With one hand, he smacks the thick television screen.

“Finn.” I say. Voice low. Trying to get his attention so he stops. He hits it again and the whole table shakes. Sighing, I find myself off the couch in seconds and scooping him off the floor.

“What are you doing, pooper?” I say, voice high. I’ve stopped the baby talk months ago, but I only use the slightly higher voice on him. I set him down in the high chair and set off for the fridge.

I made some type of pasta for Oscar as I decided to just skip dinner all together. It was already eight and Finley needed to be put to bed in twenty minutes. Easily, I grab the box of Cheerios from the top of the fridge and take out a handful. Scattering the tiny cereal bits in front of him.

“Da-da!” he yells, slamming his hand down and gathering the small pieces and plopping them into his sticky mouth.

I sit down tiredly at the kitchen table, head in hands, when the door opened. “Hey.” He said. Voice drained as his dry lips pressed against my cheek. I didn’t move. “How was your day?”