1.
It’s quiet. Except for the wind through the trees, and the wind chimes. The ones that Scott usually relegates to the basement in winter because the noise irritates him. But not this winter. The bedroom window frame rattles slightly with the gusts. The baby is asleep on my chest, wrapped in the Moby. I can hear his breath against my sternum. Reassuring rhythm. He’s alive. He’s alive. He’s alive. The refrigerator hums in the kitchen.
2.
The baby is crying. He’s hungry, I’m hungry. I decide to make a sandwich first. Take care of momma, then feed baby. Toasted mini pita, leftover turkey, havarti cheese, micro greens. One-handed snack in paper towel. Take two bites. Head to bedroom. Put pita on nightstand. Get into nursing position. (Loud wet farting sound). Must change baby. Take baby to bathroom, clean up poop, re-diaper. Return to find sandwich is now open face. Cat Bambino is nose-down in the turkey slice. Yell at him even though his brain is size of walnut. Momma hungry, baby hungry, cat hungry. Shoo him out of house. No time, energy, or will to make new sandwich. Sit down and nurse baby. Cry.
3.
The baby is crying. He can’t be hungry. Is he hungry? Momma is worn out. Poppa changes diaper. Momma lies down. Poppa takes baby into nursery, swaddles him, rocks him to quiet in the glider chair in the near-dark while NPR plays loudly; soothing, reverberant tones. Momma sleeps.
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