Page 18 of Something Like Shelter

A man’s opinion of me should have been low on my priority list, but some scars stayed tender. And sometimes you couldn’t help running a finger over them to feel the ache.

Owen’s face gave little away, though. Except for the way his gaze lingered just a second longer than was appropriate on my chest before making its way back to my face.

“I dunno. The pajamas had a certain kind of charm,” he said, shooting me an unexpectedly charming smile.

“It’s been a whole new world of clothing, that’s for sure.”

“Do you miss it? The power suits and heels?”

“Huh. I hadn’t really thought about it. I think I miss the confidence boost I felt when dressing that way. Though I don’t even know if any of it would fit now.”

“You haven’t changed that much,” he said, shaking his head.

It was embarrassing how much I needed to hear that. It was hard for any woman, let alone one who’d gone through pregnancy, not to hyper-fixate on small changes in their body. I’d been guilty of it even at my most fit and confident: Wasn’t this a little looser when I bought it? Did my triceps always look so jiggly? Is that the start of some cellulite? We were programmed from such a young age to criticize and hate the parts of us that didn’t stay the exact same as they were when we were teenagers.

So I guess I should have been prepared for how critical I would become of my postpartum body. I guess I’d been too hung up on my shock, the grief, the planning, and the research to give my body too much thought.

And while there were changes to it, I was looking at myself through a critical lens. Owen, an outsider, was looking with much kinder eyes.

“Aside from the eye bags and spit-up stains, you mean?” I joked just to avoid the way water threatened to flood my eyes at the throwaway compliment.

“The sleep will come eventually. And the spit-up stains will be gone before you know it. But so will the newborn phase.”

“Yeah, I’m trying not to wish for it to pass and stay in the moment. The often exhausting, overwhelming moment. I don’t think I’ve run a vacuum in like ten days. We’re not even going to talk about a mop.”

“No one is coming here to judge your house. They’re here to see you and the baby. And if they are here to judge your house, to hell with them. That’s their issue, not yours.” Owen shrugged.

He wasn’t wrong.

And my family was not judgmental.

The problem wasn’t external. It was my own expectations of myself. I’d always prided myself on having a clean house. I had a weekly cleaning schedule. I was borderline obsessive about my mirrors and windows. Walking into a neat home felt like immediate stress reduction after a long day of work. I could just change into leisurewear, light some candles, play some music, and cook a relaxing dinner without worrying about dishes in the sink or the dust bunnies in the corners.

All that was pre-baby, though.

“If it bothers you, they make robot vacuums and mops now. Same result. No effort.”

“How have I not thought about that?”

“Probably the whole keeping another helpless human being alive thing.”

“That must be it,” I agreed, giving him a smile as Adelaide started to grumble.

“I’ll let you get back to her. I’ll be upstairs doing some work. Give me a holler if Tuna gets annoying.”

“Tuna? Annoying? Not you, right, buddy?” I crooned at the dog whose tail was doing more sweeping of my floor than it had seen in ages.

With that, Owen got back to work.

I took Adelaide to the couch to feed her, with Tuna watching over us very closely.

As I did that, I grabbed my phone and ordered myself a robot vacuum/mop combo.

And it felt like a giant weight had been lifted from my shoulders.

CHAPTER SIX

Owen