This time the three hour difference is our advantage. I fire off a string of texts peppered with phrases like: breakdown city, not what I want, and feeling so miserable. I know she won’t be up for a few hours, but the knowledge that she’ll see them when she wakes is a salve to my lonely midnight desperation.
Like Wonder Woman, she swoops in. By the time I wake for the next feeding I’m flooded with advice and resources. At her request, a doula on her coast emailing me recommends on mine.
I am gasping and gulping, tears a broken faucet on my cheeks. I remember the adage that was my junior high motto – it takes a village to raise a child. I always thought that was such a cheesy sentiment, but now I’m marveling at it’s truth, amazed at the expanse of my village, thankful for her presence in my life.
And, for the first time, thankful for three hour differences.