I stood over Clara’s bassinet for a minute, watching her face contort as she vacillated between a shuddering whimper and an all-out wail. I’d read in Bringing Up Bébé that I should pause for a moment before picking her up and give her a minute to settle herself. She probably wasn’t actually hungry, the book had advised, and the sooner babies started “doing their nights,” the better for everyone. Well, obviously. But as much as I wanted to be a cool French parent, with a chill, self-soothing baby, her cry set off every alarm in my body, and the only way to turn off the alarms was to pick her up. And pardonnez-moi, but she always seemed hungry to me.
I picked her up, and she stopped crying as if I had flipped a switch. I nestled her cheek into my neck and padded back to bed, whispering, “Hi, sweet girl. Shh shh shh, you’re okay, you’re with Mama now.” Sometimes it amazed me that as blind tired as I was, a part of me was still so relieved to see her. Sure, it wasn’t ideal that she was awake throughout the night, but her being awake meant that she hadn’t choked on her own spit-up or suffocated on her crib sheet, which was something I spent admittedly way too much time thinking about （and googling）。
I flopped back down on the bed, holding Clara with one arm as I rearranged pillows behind me with my other, again not bothering to attempt to spare Tim from the commotion. If I was awake, Tim should be, too, although he didn’t seem to be anymore, with his back still to me, steadily rising and falling. Our pediatrician had recently given us the green light to start phasing out night feeds, since Clara was growing well, but I knew I could return to sleep sooner if I just stuck her on a boob. It was pretty much the only thing that soothed her; I’d end up being awake even longer if I tried to get her back to sleep without feeding her, engaging in an exhaustive and most often fruitless routine of rocking and shh-ing and deliriously singing weird songs that I made up.
As Clara latched, I vaguely considered with guilt the large glass of wine—had I topped it off?—I had consumed just a few hours before. But the challenge of getting up and walking to the fridge and preparing a bottle of pumped milk right now felt insurmountable. Clara nursed contentedly, her eyelids drooping and fluttering as she did so, falling back to sleep within seconds. I closed my eyes and willed myself to stay awake through her feed. I was constantly dozing off while holding her, and I knew it wasn’t safe; I could roll onto her, or she could roll off the bed. Stay awake, stay awake, was the last thing I remembered thinking when I opened my eyes to the clock showing 2:30 a.m., my neck a solid block from sleeping in such a contorted position, Clara stirring in my arms, crying out softly, ready to be fed once again.
Chapter Two
Friday, October 2
Later that morning, I was awoken not by Clara, whom I was still holding, but by Tim, who was sitting at the foot of the bed, already dressed for work and pulling up his stupid socks. They weren’t really that stupid—in fact, I was pretty sure I’d bought them for him a couple of Christmases ago. That was just how I felt toward him and everything about him lately, especially when he woke me up, even though I could tell he was trying really hard not to. I couldn’t help but resent the fact that he was actually sleeping at night and then getting dressed up to interact with other adults all day. From what I could see, his life hadn’t really changed all that much since Clara was born, but mine had been turned upside down by this little person. I hadn’t anticipated feeling so much hostility toward my husband when I envisioned our blissful first few months at home with our bundle of joy, but the truth was that his very presence made me livid sometimes. I still loved him, of course. I was just finding it remarkably difficult to be nice to him.
We’d been together for six years now and had met in the bathroom line at a Stephan Jenkins concert at City Winery. I was feeling high on the wine and the music, and I’d smiled at him when we made eye contact; he smiled his crooked smile back, unabashedly, and it was as if we already knew each other somehow. When I came out of the bathroom, he wasn’t there anymore. I was relieved beyond measure when he found me upstairs a few minutes later and asked for my number.
It was just easy between us, from day one. I met him and didn’t want to meet anyone else, and unlike before, with other guys, that feeling lasted. Our lives and even our friend groups merged seamlessly. When we moved in together, we barely argued about what to keep and what to get rid of, or who got which parts of the closet. He parted ways with his heinous and inexplicable cowboy boot collection without putting up a fight, and I willingly conceded that his pots and pans were much nicer than mine. It was all so straightforward. Prior to Clara, Tim and I had been one of those couples who pretty much never fought. Then again, what did we have to fight about back then? What to eat for dinner? Where to go for a weekend getaway? Whether to watch another episode of whatever show we were bingeing? Our lives were so blissfully uncomplicated. We’d arrogantly told ourselves—and even, embarrassingly, other people—that having a baby wouldn’t change our dynamic. That this next chapter, starting our family, would only make us closer, an even stronger team. Cringeworthy stuff, in retrospect. And so far, very incorrect.