Read Online Covet by Tracey Garvis Graves - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tracey Garvis Graves
Ads: Link
to his workaholic nature, and I should be used to it by now, but I’m not. When we were younger and newly married it didn’t bother me as much. He wasn’t out at the bars like the husbands of some of my friends (or, God forbid, the strip clubs), and I took pride in the fact that Chris had his head on straight and I never had to worry about where he’d been.
I didn’t miss him as much back then because we still spent plenty of time together, preferring each other’s company over anyone else’s. I’d wait up for him and he’d come home at eight or nine, or sometimes even ten, and loosen his tie and I’d heat up whatever I’d made for dinner. He’d eat and we’d make love and if we didn’t get to sleep until after midnight, it didn’t matter. I had the boundless energy of a woman in her early twenties, and sleep was a commodity I hadn’t yet learned to cherish the way I would after the kids came along.
We’d only been married for six months when we decided to start a family. When I got pregnant I spent some of the hours that Chris was at work turning one of the three bedrooms in our cozy little starter home into the perfect nursery. I agonized over what color to paint the walls, choosing a gender-neutral shade of light green since we didn’t want to find out the sex of the baby. We picked out the furniture and Chris put the crib together one night while I hung up all the clothes that I’d prewashed, holding the outfits up to my nose and inhaling the fresh, clean smell. The dresser held tiny pairs of socks and sleepers, and the bookcase in the corner contained all my childhood favorites as well as the entire Dr. Seuss collection.
When Josh was born I took to mothering with a vigor that surprised me, blocking everything but the baby out of my life. When my maternity leave was almost over I gave my employer my two weeks’ notice and decided to go the freelance route so I could work from home. I breast-fed, so Chris didn’t have much to do except make sure the car seat was installed properly and make diaper runs. For months, Josh and I cuddled in the rocking chair in the nursery, with the middle-of-the-night feedings quickly becoming my favorite. I was exhausted at first, but the glow of the night-light and the absolute stillness of the house—and Josh’s contented sigh—satisfied me more than anything in my life ever had.
Chris stood in the doorway one evening when he got home from work, watching as I fed Josh. “Do you need anything?” he asked.
“No,” I answered, barely taking the time to look up. “I don’t need anything at all.”
There was no reason for Chris not to work as many hours as he wanted. I was the kind of wife—the kind of mother—who had everything under control at home. And when Jordan came along I attended to her with the same devotion I’d given her brother, working twice as hard to make sure I had enough time and attention for both of them. If Chris ever felt left out, he didn’t show it.
Once Jordan was sleeping through the night, I’d awaken periodically, listening from our quiet bedroom convinced I’d heard a cry or a sound. When I realized everyone was still sleeping I’d wake up Chris and we’d come together quickly. He was always receptive, and making love in the middle of the night was my way of compensating for my absence during those early years of parenting. It had nothing to do with obligation, though; I needed the closeness, the connection, as much as he did. Maybe more.
When I come back downstairs after making sure the kids are tucked in I find Chris rifling through a stack of paper, a pen clenched between his teeth. Even though Chris hasn’t slept in our bed in a long, long time, I make a request. “Come up when you’re done.” I can’t handle a blatant rejection, so I clarify. “I just want you to lie down with me,” I say. “Please.” I hate that I sound as if I’m begging.
He looks up at me and takes the pen out of his mouth. His desire
I didn’t miss him as much back then because we still spent plenty of time together, preferring each other’s company over anyone else’s. I’d wait up for him and he’d come home at eight or nine, or sometimes even ten, and loosen his tie and I’d heat up whatever I’d made for dinner. He’d eat and we’d make love and if we didn’t get to sleep until after midnight, it didn’t matter. I had the boundless energy of a woman in her early twenties, and sleep was a commodity I hadn’t yet learned to cherish the way I would after the kids came along.
We’d only been married for six months when we decided to start a family. When I got pregnant I spent some of the hours that Chris was at work turning one of the three bedrooms in our cozy little starter home into the perfect nursery. I agonized over what color to paint the walls, choosing a gender-neutral shade of light green since we didn’t want to find out the sex of the baby. We picked out the furniture and Chris put the crib together one night while I hung up all the clothes that I’d prewashed, holding the outfits up to my nose and inhaling the fresh, clean smell. The dresser held tiny pairs of socks and sleepers, and the bookcase in the corner contained all my childhood favorites as well as the entire Dr. Seuss collection.
When Josh was born I took to mothering with a vigor that surprised me, blocking everything but the baby out of my life. When my maternity leave was almost over I gave my employer my two weeks’ notice and decided to go the freelance route so I could work from home. I breast-fed, so Chris didn’t have much to do except make sure the car seat was installed properly and make diaper runs. For months, Josh and I cuddled in the rocking chair in the nursery, with the middle-of-the-night feedings quickly becoming my favorite. I was exhausted at first, but the glow of the night-light and the absolute stillness of the house—and Josh’s contented sigh—satisfied me more than anything in my life ever had.
Chris stood in the doorway one evening when he got home from work, watching as I fed Josh. “Do you need anything?” he asked.
“No,” I answered, barely taking the time to look up. “I don’t need anything at all.”
There was no reason for Chris not to work as many hours as he wanted. I was the kind of wife—the kind of mother—who had everything under control at home. And when Jordan came along I attended to her with the same devotion I’d given her brother, working twice as hard to make sure I had enough time and attention for both of them. If Chris ever felt left out, he didn’t show it.
Once Jordan was sleeping through the night, I’d awaken periodically, listening from our quiet bedroom convinced I’d heard a cry or a sound. When I realized everyone was still sleeping I’d wake up Chris and we’d come together quickly. He was always receptive, and making love in the middle of the night was my way of compensating for my absence during those early years of parenting. It had nothing to do with obligation, though; I needed the closeness, the connection, as much as he did. Maybe more.
When I come back downstairs after making sure the kids are tucked in I find Chris rifling through a stack of paper, a pen clenched between his teeth. Even though Chris hasn’t slept in our bed in a long, long time, I make a request. “Come up when you’re done.” I can’t handle a blatant rejection, so I clarify. “I just want you to lie down with me,” I say. “Please.” I hate that I sound as if I’m begging.
He looks up at me and takes the pen out of his mouth. His desire
Similar Books
