My phone rings, and I grab it with my free hand while still trying to soothe Henry.
“Jordan? How’s it going?” Mom’s voice is warm but tinged with worry.
“Fine,” I lie, raising my voice over Henry’s cries. “Everything’s great.”
“Is that the baby crying?”
“He’s just a little fussy. Probably tired.”
The understatement of the century. Henry’s cries have reached a pitch that makes my ears ring.
“Have you tried burping him?” Mom asks. “Sometimes babies cry after eating if they need to get air bubbles out.”
Burping. Of course. I’m a doctor, and I didn’t think to burp a baby after feeding.
“Yeah, I tried that,” I lie again. “He’s settling down now.”
“Are you sure you don’t want us to come up? Your father’s feeling much better.”
“No.” Like the last time, the word comes out sharper than I intended. “I mean, there’s no need. We’re handling everything fine here.”
We talk for a few more minutes, Mom giving me advice I pretend I already know, while Henry continues his protest. After I hang up, I immediately look up “how to burp a baby” on my phone.
The first website shows a simple technique: hold the baby upright against your chest and pat their back gently. I adjustHenry’s position, and within thirty seconds, he lets out a burp that seems impossible for someone his size.
The crying stops instantly.
“Well, that was easy,” I mutter, though my hands are still shaking from the adrenaline.
Henry looks up at me with a satisfied expression, like he’s wondering what took me so long to figure that out. For the first time since I brought him home, I feel like maybe I can do this.
The feeling lasts exactly twenty minutes.
Henry falls asleep in my arms, and I manage to transfer him to the bassinet I set up in one of my guestrooms months ago for when he and Amy are over. I use the quiet time to unpack more of his things, trying to babyproof a house that was definitely not designed with children in mind.
The doorbell rings, and I freeze. Henry stirs but doesn’t wake. I hurry to the door and find a delivery truck in my driveway.
“Crib delivery for Hadley,” the driver says, wheeling a large box up my front walkway.
Right. The crib I ordered online this afternoon in a panic after realizing Henry couldn’t sleep in his car seat forever. I’d picked the first one with good reviews and expedited shipping, not really thinking about the fact that it would need to be assembled.
The box is enormous. The instruction manual that falls out when I open it is thicker than some medical textbooks I’ve read. This is going to take hours.
I check in on Henry, still sleeping peacefully in his bassinet. Maybe the bassinet will work for another night or two while I figure out how to put this thing together.
As I drag the box inside, a nagging feeling settles in my stomach. I keep feeling like I’m forgetting something important. Baby food? I bought formula, but Henry is six months old. Don’t babies start eating solid food around now? And what about toys? Medicine? Baby-safe cleaning supplies?
The list of things I don’t know feels endless.
When Henry wakes up an hour later, he’s crying again. Different crying this time. More urgent.
I check his diaper, and the smell hits me immediately. Somehow, I wasn’t prepared for this part. In the hospital, other people change the diapers. Other people deal with the messier aspects of human biology.
It takes me three tries and half a pack of wipes to get Henry clean and into a fresh diaper. By the time I’m done, we’re both exhausted, and there’s evidence of the ordeal on my shirt.
I’m washing my hands when I catch a glimpse of movement in the kitchen window next door. A woman’s silhouette, there for just a moment before the curtains fall back into place.
My neighbor. I’ve seen her around over the years, usually with a boy who is elementary school age. She’s pretty, probably around my age or a few years younger, with the kind of warm smile she gives the kid that makes it obvious she’s a good mom.
