A few months after our son was born, I started having going-out-to-dinner dread. Don't get me wrong, I'm a big fan of a meal out, and in those early days, our son was super portable. He would sleep blissfully in a car seat beside the table for hours while we took a much-needed breath in the outside world and had adult conversation. The only problem? I had nothing to talk about. Well, that's not exactly true. I had one thing to talk about, and it was asleep beside the table.
"How's being a mom?" my friend's would ask, a question that encompassed such a vast and complex territory that the only way to answer it over dinner was to list the mundane. Feedings are great. He's a good sleeper. We think we got a smile yesterday. Inevitably, their eyes would glaze over and they'd move on to my husband.
"How's work?" they'd ask. He'd rattle off something about filming in Egypt, and I would want to crawl under the table with the car seat.
I was jealous of my husband in those moments.
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