It’s been a long day.
Can you see me?
I know your shoes and coat are wet from the rain; I can see you’re trying not to make tracks on the kitchen floor.
It’s been a long day.
Was it a good one?
You’ve been so busy, and I’ve felt jealous of your work; even if it’s not another person; even if it’s not your first choice.
It’s been a long day.
I’m tired.
I didn’t mean to barely say “Hello” as you came in. I meant to hug you hard and kiss you gently.
It’s been a long day.
Can you hear me?
Can you hear my heart pound because it needs yours pressed to it, in between the child’s cries and my rattling off what we need to do for dinner?
It’s been a long day.
I want to hear about it.
I want to listen as you explain to me what you’ve worked on, what frustrated you, or what kept you away from eating the lunch you put back into the fridge.
It’s been a long day.
I want to talk to you.
I want to say more than “She needs this for school tomorrow” or “I have an appointment this week.”
It’s been a long day.
Can we dance together?
Can we shift our bodies towards each other, instead of shuffling out of one another’s way as we cook and pack lunches?
It’s been a long day.
Can I touch you?
Can I nibble your ear a little too aggressively—where the kids won’t see—and then I’ll drift back to grabbing a cutting board, like you don’t want to move into the bedroom?
It’s been a long day.
Please look at me.
Please see who I still am, beneath these layers of responsibilities and roles that I’ve cloaked myself in—that cushion me from you.
It’s been a long day.
I hope it’s not over?
After our kids go to bed, and our own eyes are heavy, will you stay up with me?
It’s been a long day, my love.
(But too short before our “Goodnight.”)
