Happy.

Every night Jason lets me get a few hours to myself. The way he put it, he gets to go to work every day, and despite how hard he works it's a chance to live for a while without worrying about a baby crying or heating bottles or diaper rash. And so when he gets home, these things aren't a burden to him--I can see it in his face when he walks through the door after work.

And so at night, around 9 or 10, he takes over. I go upstairs. I think I'm supposed to sleep during this baby-respite, but I don't.

Last night I realized what I've been doing the past month (really, the past 10 months, throughout the whole pregnancy) whenever I get a minute to myself. I've been trying so hard to remember what it was that made me truly happy. Not to say that my life doesn't bring me joy. It does. I think I've just lost the ability to let myself forget all about the not-so-fun details of life (like my health or money or expectations or spit-up) and feel truly immersed in happy. I might pretend; in the back of my head, though, a list of the icky life-details is still ticking by.

Ever since I saw that positive sign on the pregnancy test all those months ago, I've been catapulted into this complete ether-world, one that I never really let myself gradually sink into. It was all "oh shit, oh shit, oh shit I'm pregnant," and then, suddenly, my life was filled with preparation for this new life and then, suddenly, the reality of this new life.

And that's why Jason gives me a few hours every night, so that I can try to let myself catch up. But it took me until last night to really do it. After I'd taken a long hot bath and gotten in bed with The Daily Show playing--my usual nighttime routine--and forced myself to try to remember the last time happy took over.

Whenever I think of that tricky, fickle word--"happy"--I'm taken back to a day in March about six years ago. I'd just had lunch with my best friend Meagan, and Jason and I were in the beginning of our relationship, right around the time I'd started realizing I was smack dab in the middle of an actual love. It was just starting to get warm outside, and I was driving around in my hand-me-down red Chevrolet Cavalier, the windows down to let the Spring in. I remember in that moment feeling just happy. So, so happy.

Last night I made a mental list of other moments since then that brought that same, pure feeling. Dancing with Morgan on our first night out after we moved to New York for college. Eating oysters with Jason during our trip to New Orleans. The night he proposed. Getting recognized for projects I'd worked hard on--at Sidelines, in school. Flying to Paris with my mom, and drinking my first legal alcoholic beverage at the airport in Switzerland when I was 19. Going into labor and seeing Adelyn for the first time.

But then I realized that most of the memories that came to mind weren't quite as exciting as proposals and travels and meeting your first child. I get that same kind of happy after I finish a really good book. After I get home from a busy day. After I've spent the day shopping with my mom. And then, finally, I understood that I'm still getting that happy. It just looks different, and I'm waiting for it to look the same. Like last night when Adelyn fell asleep on my chest, or at four that same morning when she smiled after I woke her up.

It's just a different kind of happy now, I guess. I've just spent so long waiting for the same aha! this-is-what-happy-feels-like-moment that I got six years ago that I ignored this new feeling, let it register as mundane.

So, last night, I picked up a book. (The first time I've read something non-baby related since Adelyn was born.)

I woke up feeling a little more like myself.