Page 2 of Ho Ho Oh No

No concentration or productivity.

Clear thoughts are a thing of the past. I’m not just tumbling down rabbit holes; I’m digging them first.

Doom mental spiraling.

Scared of my own shadow.

Random rage and irritability.

And unpredictable crying fits as the cherry on top.

With a labored sigh, I pat my growing belly, reminding myself for the hundredth time today that the baby will be worth it.

Unfortunately, by releasing my double-fisted grip on the sweater to caress my stomach, I released half of the sweater, making it pop backward toward Leo.

And. His. Face.

“Fecking shite!” I yelp, my blood racing wildly as I scramble to pull the coarse fabric back away from him, hopefully undoing my flub.

“That was a close one,” Leo huffs, his patience for me running thin. Or so I assume.

Too scared to look for myself, I keep my eyes sealed. “Did I get your face?”

“No, angel.”

Oh, thank feck.

“Want me to back away?” I ask, my teeth grinding and my eyes closing to hold off the pooling tears. “I’m sorry. I can’t focus for the life of me.”

“I got it, angel.” His rich, velvety voice comforts me, staving off the flare of panic.

While wringing my useless hands in front of me, I watch through squinted eyes as he deftly removes the sweater without smudging himself.Once it’s off, he takes it into the laundry room.

I’ll throw it away later.

Needing a distraction, I head to the sink to scrub my hands with soap and scalding hot water. Then I swish some mouthwash to rid myself of the coffee taste.

When he returns to the bathroom, he joins me at the sink to wash his hands.

Like always, he senses my mood shift and hits me with a questioning look while drying his hands.

“I should have let you do it on your own.” One of my shoulders lifts in an apologetic shrug. “Sorry.”

How am I going to mother this child when I can’t even help my husband with a simple task like this?

Immediately after that thought pops into my mind, my tears come flooding back. My chest tightens with the familiar panic of an impending freak-out. Not even the sight of Leo’s magnificent chest, tattoos, and broad shoulders can save me.

Breathe, Sue. Just breathe.

I need to think of my four things. I’ve given up on five since it’s an awful number.

Salty sea air. Sand in my toes. Corn. Squawking seagulls.

Struggling to channel some of the peace that rapidly abandoned me, I back out of the bathroom slowly.

In through the nose and out through the mouth.Eight times. Great number.

While breathing with intention, I focus on the sound and feel of the oxygen filling my lungs. Again and again, I repeat my four things.

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