Last night we had a dinner of local BBQ (that miserably FAILED the 'Is This as Good as the BBQ at Home?' test), and every so often I'd catch J's eye and we'd sort of grimace at each other. They were leaving after dinner, and the pit in my stomach became deeper as the sky grew dark outside.
We had a little session yesterday afternoon with Colette, J and J's parents, and I edited them all afternoon and added them to birth photos. I'm not so good with words when we're face to face, especially when the Ugly Cry is about to bust itself out. So I sat myself down and put everything together in a slideshow for J to take home. At the end I wrote a few words about how much she means to us. I meant for them to watch it after they left, but I was outvoted and we watched it last night instead.
Of course, with the projector, the surround sound, and the music...we had no chance. J was crying before the first photo played, and by the time the last word faded even her Dad was wiping his eyes.
That was my love letter to my baby girl's mommy. Her first mommy. I am her second.
The show provided the catalyst for our parting, and we helped load everyone up, J handed Colette to Chuck (Hubster has a name!), we promised to "See you soon!", and we walked back inside as they drove away.
I came inside and just broke down. Colette was ready for a bottle, and I wept as she ate. I savored every contented sigh and gurgle, and when she let loose with one of her famous not-so-dainty belches, the tears turned to laughter.
We tucked the older two into bed, and Chuck demanded the first shift. He found some obscure old flick that he hasn't watched in a while, snuggled Colette on his shoulder, and she drifted off.
The old man hasn't lost his touch. Not one bit.
He didn't share her all that well last night, but I did get some snuggle time in during the wee hours of the morning, and when the kids came bursting into the living room demanding breakfast, my first thought was "Where's J. I need to hand her the baby."
And then I remembered.
We will see her soon. In five months, to be exact. They've promised us some decent BBQ.