I was four months pregnant and my son was eleven months old. My son and I trekked out to the Atlanta airport to wish my grandparents and my dad, who was driving them, a farewell after a fun family wedding.
My dad arrived before I did and waited as I got out of the car. I was in my husband’s SUV and I did not climb out gracefully. Dad waited patiently as I gathered the umpteen-million things I thought I needed to carry with me because I had a baby.
My son was fussy getting out of the car and we struggled as I tried to get his wriggly self into his carrier. My dad just stood there, characteristically quiet.
I was frustrated, tired, and weary of the hassle it now took me to accomplish even the simplest tasks.
“It’s not easy, you know,” I told him.
“Who said it’s supposed to be?”