“It’s okay, sweet girl,” I tell Izzy, but her cries only get louder, bouncing off the walls of the small exam room in piercing waves.
To her? It is most definitely not okay. Apparently nothing is okay right now in Izzy’s little life.
Her cries only get louder, and I pull the flimsy paper gown around myself, trying to hold it in place with my right hand as I rock her stroller back and forth with my left.
Izzy’s been cranky around this time every day for the last several days in a row, and no matter what, I never know how to fix it. It’s as if she’s opposed to the angle of the sun—except she’s inside in a room without a window.
Gah, I just wish there was a way to know what’s upsetting her.
I rock the stroller faster and faster until the hiccup in her cry is less shaky, and I glance at the clock yet again. The doctor is evidently running behind this morning, and for someone on as tight of a schedule as I am, it’s the last thing I need.
Izzy’s pacifier falls to the side, and I grab it as quick as I can and push it back into her mouth. Her eyes are fluttering just enough that I know sleep has to be somewhere on the horizon. It’d be helpful if the horizon seemed a little closer, seeing as I’d like to spread my legs for my physician without holding a baby at the same time and then make it across town to my listing appointment without trying to tell my client “The hardwood floors are original!” over the sounds of Izzy’s wailing.
Her eyes blink heavily, and I have to caution myself not to rock the stroller faster with my eagerness. Finding something that works with a baby is a lot like finding something that works with sex. Don’t go faster, don’t go harder, don’t change the rhythm—don’t move a fucking muscle that you’re not currently moving.
And what exactly do you know about sex these days? It’s only been eleventy billion years since you’ve had it.
I hear the doctor chatting with a nurse outside the door and grit my teeth while appealing to the universe. Please, I beg of you. Let them come into this room as quietly as they possibly can. Like church mice, in the middle of a priest’s sermon, with the Virgin Mary herself standing at the altar.
As Dr. Maddox and her nurse continue to chat about a new upscale Japanese restaurant in SoHo, I will Izzy to take the plunge into dreamland. Back and forth, back and forth, I watch as the tension in her tiny body finally leaves on a whimpering sigh. She’s still in the twilight stage of sleep, but I can attest to the fact that she’s due to pass out—we partied all night together last night—and her body’s needs should take over soon. At least, I hope.
I really, really hope.
Finally, there’s a knock on the door, just two quick raps of knuckles and then the door is swinging open, and it all occurs without startling Izzy. Thank everything! I shift back onto the table and rearrange my gown—a practice in modesty I don’t really understand, given the fact that the whole purpose of this appointment is for the good doctor to spend some time between my legs.
“Hi, Maria.” Her smile is warm as she greets me. “How are you feeling?”
I keep my voice low and soothing—a hint I’m hoping her medical degree will help her pick up on—and answer to the best of my ability. “Great, Dr. Maddox. I mean, tired, sure, but great. Things are really great. I’m great. Izzy’s great. We’re great.”
Wow, Ri, don’t oversell it.
Dr. Maddox’s brow automatically pinches together, and I don’t blame her. I sound about as confident in how things are going as I would if I were preparing to perform an operation with only a ten-minute YouTube video serving as my training.
“Are you still breastfeeding?”
Ugh. Two questions into this appointment and I already feel like a failure.
“I…uh…tried, but…yeah, I had to switch to bottle-feeding.”
To say I tried is putting it lightly. After having issues with Izzy’s latch from day one in the hospital, I continued to try even after I was discharged. I even hired three different lactation consultants and private nurses to make home visits to help, but all breastfeeding ever brought me was lots of stress, tears, and sore nipples.
I still hate that I couldn’t do it, knowing how important it was to my sister.
“Let me guess, issues with latching?”
“And my milk supply wasn’t exactly stellar.” I frown. “Though, I did keep pumping until my nipples were bleeding and I was only getting air back.”
“Well, that’s okay.” Dr. Maddox tries to reassure me. “The most important part, Maria, is that your baby is getting fed.” She glances at a gloriously sleeping Izzy and grins at me. “And by the looks of those adorable, chubby cheeks, I’d say you’re doing a good job.”