Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 154728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Not that Mabel laid in a bassinet to nap often. Usually, it was in her besotted father’s arms. He rarely put her down and routinely wore her in the baby carrier that had arrived as a gift from Kip and Fiona.
She fed often, and my breasts were only just recovering from breastfeeding. From the painful engorgement, where I grew three cup sizes. The cracked, bleeding nipples. The powerful let down. All of my clothes were stained with breast milk. Our sheets too.
Mabel fed hourly, on rare magical occasions, it was every two hours during the night. I routinely forced myself to stay awake, only to wake an hour later, Mabel resting happily on my chest.
I would punish myself for this, having heard and read about the dangers of bedsharing.
“You will feel guilt about it all,” Maisie informed me when I told her. “You will find people or articles to reinforce that guilt. ‘You’re putting your baby in danger if you co-sleep, you’re depriving them of comfort if you don’t, you’re giving them abandonment issues if you sleep train, you’re not giving them self-soothing skills if you don’t.’ It will drive you fucking crazy.” She rubbed my arm. “The decisions you make on your own are your best decisions. Like I said before, you’ve got a lifetime of decisions ahead of you that you’ll question and second guess. But you’re doing great.”
It was one of many pep talks that Maisie offered, since like she predicted, I did question everything. I was paralyzed by indecision. I couldn’t put Mabel in the car seat. Not only did she scream bloody murder when anyone did, I was tortured with thoughts that I was buckling her too tight. So Kane did it. Like he did all the practical things pertaining to her. I barely knew how to change a diaper that first week, still feeling like I was fumbling, all thumbs.
Me, who could effortlessly debone a branzino.
Mom and Mabel did all the cooking, because even though I yearned for the kitchen, my brain couldn’t conjure up a single dish, let alone the steps to make that dish. They did all the laundry, the cleaning. They took Mabel in the early mornings and evenings so Kane and I could sleep. I’d creep downstairs to where my mother was still sleeping on the pull-out, the sun would be rising, my mother would be propped up in bed, waiting with her arms open.
I’d hand off a sleeping Mabel who would nuzzle into my mother’s chest, then I’d do a zombie walk back to sleep. Only to wake up in a panic.
One morning, I sat up screaming, “Where’s the baby?”
Hearing my angst, Kane had scrambled up and looked under the bed for her before we both realized she was downstairs with Mom.
That was not the first or the last panic-stricken moment. I’d woken many times in alarm, thinking she was tangled in the duvet. I tried to nurse a pillow another night.
And this was with my mother and Mabel’s help.
I feared, truly feared, their exit.
When I communicated my panic to my mother, she hadn’t so much as blinked in shock at the way I was not only willingly sharing this but being open and vulnerable with her.
“Trust your motherly instincts; you know what’s best for her,” she said, lighting touching Mabel’s head.
My eyes snapped up at my mother and her well-meaning words spoken in a delicate tone. “My instincts?” I repeated in a harsh whisper so I wouldn’t wake her. Though when she was in my arms, a tornado running through the living room wouldn’t wake her. Carefully placing her in her bassinet was the only surefire way to jolt her awake.
“I don’t have instincts when it comes to babies.” I continued. “I have instincts when it comes to the correct time to take a blue cheese souffle out of the oven. When a Wagyu steak is perfectly rare. How long to sear scallops for.” I looked down at the little smattering of dark hair. “And I certainly don’t know what’s best for her. I just met her. These people are experts.” I tapped the nearest book. “These people have degrees and knowledge about babies. I know food, that’s it. I do not know how to do this.” My words were emphasized by a sob.
“Here’s the secret, sweetie.” My mother leaned forward to brush the tears from my face. “No one knows how to do this. We’re all just pretending, making decisions that we hope are right. Doing our best.” She looked outside, to where Kane was on the phone. “And you have the best man.”
I followed her gaze, unable to disagree with her.
But even with the best man, I felt like we’d fail.
Twenty-Three
“What are you doing?”
I startled at the rough voice, the question spoken in a whisper yet boomed through the quiet of the house.