I am sitting here with my son asleep on my chest. For once the house is quiet: my husband is asleep after the ghost watch, and my mother is walking the dog. It’s just me and the soft sloughs of his breaths. And I think: this is what it should be. My psychological need for space is beginning to assert itself. I want time to myself. My infant apparently does not intrude upon that bubble, probably because he makes no demands upon me beyond the physical, and that only every 2-3 hours. And the current slate of stay-in visitations is a few more days with my mother, then husband’s mother, then both my parents, then husband’s mother and sister, and sometime in there at least one set of my husband’s friends. My mother made a comment today that perhaps she should come back yet again when my husband goes back to work. I just smiled but inside I thought, “at some point he and I need to be left to figure out our lives from here.” Sigh. I knew having a baby would draw the family closer…I just didn’t expect it to be stranglingly tight. I also thought, as we sit here in such peace, that post-feeding naptime feels like such an optimal writing time. I am not quite ready yet; I can feel that the words aren’t really there. But the desire is budding, and at least for now I can see moments in which writing can resume. Once my house is my own again.