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Things have gotten better, and somehow worse, in the Mandy/Martin household. After the virus, then pink eye, there was a brief stint of relief. The girls went back to daycare. I did a podcast, went to Ikea, ate meatballs in the cafeteria across from an older woman also eating meatballs and listening aloud to what I believe was a blow job tutorial on her phone.
I emailed Steven, the sales rep for the manufacturer making the boxes for my greeting cards, then called Steven, then emailed him again. I stared out my office window, willing the delivery truck to arrive. Of course, the boxes came when I left to get the girls at daycare. Of course, I opened them and there was a printing issue. I called Steven again. I sent him photos. He emailed back saying they’d reprint them and reship them. I indulged in a small cry. I wrote some more. I told myself this was life.
I was just about caught up on chores, work, before Elizabeth, my youngest, started acting odd…
She wouldn’t eat, sleep, be put down for a second without screaming. Her cries sounded different too. More menacing. Almost like she was cursing under her tears. Emmy has started covering her ears. I have started picking my scalp. Jay has stopped talking. The only conversation we’ve had in the past week is confirming that he needs to book a vasectomy.
“A baby’s cry,” I recently read, “can cause depression and psychosis.” I know that. I thought, however, those days were behind me. Elizabeth is almost thirteen months. Something was wrong.
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