My husband said to me this morning that he could hear the baby next door crying last night. And then he heard fighting.
He said it gave him anxiety about what was to come.
Those first few months were really rough. I argue that the first three were the hardest, whereas he argues things got harder after three months.
I know it doesn’t matter, who had a harder time, who thought what stages were most difficult, or who thought who was doing more.
But I can’t seem to let it go.
I think it’s because the disappointment was profound. The anger I felt towards my husband in those first few months was new and raw and overwhelming.
I still remember so clearly those mornings when I had been up every hour, two hours, sometimes for hours trying to sooth our crying baby. Latching to nurse, followed by pain, taking him right off only to have him latch unsuccessfully again. Over and over until I would just sit sobbing, beyond frustrated. And then it would be 6am and I would see my husband walk past our door to go downstairs, I’d call out to him – ‘can you please take the baby’ and he said he couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
I needed him so badly and he wasn’t there for me.
This memory still makes me angry, bur more than anything else, sad. The man who I know my husband is – loving, supportive, nurturing – is not the man in that memory. And I’m afraid that I was no better. I had become a wife who was also unsupportive, unforgiving, spiteful, and bitter.
So I get why the baby crying and the neighbours fighting gives him anxiety. Because it was fucking hard on both of us, but most of all, it was hard on our marriage. It nearly destroyed us and some days I wonder how we’re going to make it through.