meltdown

Suddenly I'm crying, then sobbing as if my heart is being pulled out of my chest. "But I want YOU," I say, clutching his arm, feeling like Anne Shirley at the end of one of those Green Gables stories, except infinitely more pathetic.

I'm sitting in my favorite living room chair, the one that looks vaguely Arts-and-Craftsy with its wooden arms and mission-style slats, except it's a recliner, and at the moment, I am reclined. Just one lamp is on. It's late, and we normally would be reading in bed, except it's harder for me to read in bed now that I'm "big with child." The book in my lap is face down, open to the page I've just read — the one that's been telling me how hard my life is about to become: How maternity leave is going to reduce me to a 24-hour caregiver and maid. How I'm going to resent watching him walk out of the house every morning because I can't. How 84 percent of couples report that having a child causes detriment to their marriage. I should know better than to read these scary books, just like I know better than to watch scary movies. They tend to send me into an emotional tailspin before I have time to think it through clearly. I react before I think. I get overwhelmed.

On the outside, all he hears is a sigh. On the inside, I am melting into a heap of helplessness, like a child. "That's a big sigh," he says, looking up from the couch, where he is reading something technical.

"Listen to this," I say, and I start to read it to him. "It's so scary. I'm just so afraid I won't be competent at this. What if I really do resent you every morning when you leave for work?"

"I'll be there for the first two weeks," he says.

"Yes, and that leaves me alone for five and a half months," I say. "I'm a writer. I'm an editor. I'm not trained in childcare. I never wanted to be a maid. And yet this is going to be my life for six months, if not more. How will I get through this on my own?"

That's when the tears puddle into my eyes, and he sees, and he comes over and sits on the edge of the chair. We've talked about this before, how parenthood will affect our careers, how nice it would be to split parenting roles more evenly, yet how improbable, given the nature of his work. "I wish I could do more to help you," he says. "You know you have friends you can call for support."

But girlfriends don't measure up to my best friend. He's my partner, and suddenly I can't imagine going through this without him every day. He's the one I want changing the nasty diapers with me, thinking up games to play with the baby, figuring out how to soothe the cries. The thought of doing this alone, day after day, petrifies me. That's what I'm feeling in the moment, anyway. It's you I want, I tell him, and I hold onto his arm as if it will keep him from flying away.

I know I'm being clingy, and it makes me feel weak, needy, like one of those helpless housewives who are afraid to drive, incapable of handling anything on my own, even though in reality I've been handling things for years. I remember clingy from the days of bad relationships, when I mixed need up with love, when I thought I could make him want to be with me if I tried hard enough. But this relationship has always been different. I've never had to be afraid of him walking away. I've always stood on both feet with him, felt strong and equal. But I can't stop bawling, and my eyes are blurry with tears, and I reach for his old T-shirt so I can wipe my tears off on it. He takes it off and gives it to me, and he sits there on the arm of the chair, shirtless, an arm wrapped awkwardly around the top of my head. "I hear you," he says. It's all he can say for the moment.

This doesn't happen to me very much, these meltdowns, and when they do, I always feel slightly embarrassed afterward. Childish, insecure. And yes, I judge myself, too. It's to his credit that he treats me with dignity and doesn't make fun of me. He wants to protect me, and sometimes I let him. I think he protects me from the scariest parts of myself, the ones that make me want to curl up into a ball and disappear.

And then he starts to talk, reminding me of how good I am with babies, how I used to take care of my younger brothers and sister, how when we babysat for Maria for the first time, it was me who figured out how to get her to stop crying. And think about how wonderful it's going to be to meet our son. To watch him smile, to see him wave his arms and legs around and laugh, to be there when he first rolls over. It's going to be a miracle. And I know he is right, and he's not going anywhere. Maybe to work, but he'll be home for dinner, and there will be plenty of diapers waiting for him, plenty of bottles to feed, plenty of time for him to bond with his baby boy. Plenty of time for us to have time for each other. Our marriage isn't going to slip away from us.

Pretty soon we go to bed. Before I turn out the light, I open the book again and read a few more pages. I'm hoping the scary parts are over.

"Are you still reading that?" he says from his side of the bed. "Maybe it's not the best thing for you to be reading right now."

He wants to protect me, and sometimes I let him. And sometimes he does.