I was roaming a consignment store last spring, stealing a rare moment for myself, when my friend Hannah called.
She was sobbing. ?We?re moving,? she told me though her tears, ?to the Island.?
My mind fogged over. I think I muttered something lame, possibly, “Oh.”
Hannah and her family had lived three doors down from us for five years; our oldest sons were like brothers, our youngest kiddos had arrived just two months apart. She was my closest friend, and we saw each other almost every day, even if just for a wave.
I pulled a black romper off the rack as she told me how sorry she was that she had known this for a little while, but hadn?t told me yet, because it just felt too sad to acknowledge that we wouldn?t be neighbours anymore. I tried to summon happiness for her. Hannah?s parents and brother lived on the Island, and we had often talked wistfully about living near our families (mine lives in the States). After all, raising kids takes a village, right" Hannah had become the beating heart of my village. She, her partner, and her kids made life and parenthood ever so much more doable?and fun.
I should have left the store right then to cry with my friend. Instead, I went to try on the romper to avoid feeling anything at all.
Every parent knows the utter depletion that comes with responding to the needs and emotions of small people through bleary-eyed exhaustion. When I was a new parent, the loneliness of the whole endeavour blindsided me.
I felt desperate t...