Evie appeared a moment later, wearing an old T-shirt stained with spit-up. Her normally neat hair was a mess, and the look on her face was one of pure exhaustion.
With a sigh, she stepped back and let me in.
The sink was full of dishes, the laundry was piled up everywhere, and the air smelled like a diaper pail.
Vincent, who was propped up on his mom’s shoulder, was red-faced, his little fists clenched tight.
“I just fed him,” she breathed, her body deflating. “I don’t know what’s wrong.”
I put down the box of diapers and held out the coffee. “Vermont-style cold brew.” I’d made sure that Evie got her favorite drink every morning. If I couldn’t deliver it, Elijah, my nephew did. He was usually with his moms at the coffee shop every morning before school. Slipping him a few extra bucks to make sure Evie was taken care of was a no-brainer.
I placed a small paper bag on the cluttered coffee table, then straightened. “Pesto mozzarella egg sandwich.”
As she looked from me to the bag, eyes wide, I picked up a burp cloth from what looked like a clean pile of laundry and threw it over my shoulder.
“Here.” I reached for Vincent. “Let me take him so you can caffeinate and eat.”
She took a step back, her expression one of alarm. “I’ve got it,” she snapped. “You don’t need to drop in with treats, thinking you can fix everything. That’s not—” Her voice cracked and tears spilled down her cheeks. “I’m just so tired, and he’s always crying.”
Stomach clenching in sympathy, I squeezed her shoulder. “Evie, it’s okay.” I ducked, catching her eye, hoping she could see that I only wanted to make things easier for her.
Eventually she nodded, and I scooped Vincent out of her arms.
“Take a minute,” I told her, picking up the sandwich and shoving it at her. “Sit down and eat something.”
As she shuffled across the room, I got Vincent over my shoulder, massaging his back and dancing around the room like he preferred. He was angry, poor little guy, and according to Evie, he’d just finished eating and was in a fresh diaper.
“He keeps spitting his binky out,” she said from the kitchen island, where she sipped her coffee, her eyes closed.
With even breaths, knowing if I got worked up that would only upset him more, I continued dancing around the room. While I bounced and rocked and shushed him, I flipped through the tips I’d learned from the newborn videos I still watched regularly.
When the one the group of dads I follow had talked about recently came to me, I laid him down on his back on the couch and cycled his legs like he was riding a tiny bike. Around and around. Up and down, back and forth, I gently moved his chubby little legs.
At first he cried louder, but remembering the encouragement the guys in the video gave, I continued. And after a moment, Vincent ripped one of the loudest farts I’d ever heard. And I spent most of my days in a firehouse.
I was grinning down at him, half stunned, when Evie broke into laughter. It quickly turned hysterical, and I started to laugh too.
Vincent stopped crying and watched me with interest.
“Wow. Respect, son,” I said, my eyes blurred from happy tears.
When I offered him his binky and cradled him in my arms, getting comfortable on the couch, he settled quickly.
Evie walked over, still giggling. “What the hell came out of him? He only weighs eleven pounds.”
I shook my head. “Something unholy.”
Her smile dropped, her shoulders sinking. “You make it look easy,” she said softly. “How did you learn that trick, with the legs?”
I patted Vincent’s back. “One of those baby YouTube videos. Since they don’t move around a lot yet, gas gets trapped in their tummies. Cycling the legs helps get it out.”
Impressed with myself, I sat a little straighter and gave her a smile. “Eat your breakfast. I’ve got him.”
Rather than a high five to celebrate this parenting win, I was met with a quivering lip.
And then she was sinking onto the couch next to me, her body convulsing with sobs.
“I can’t do this.” Her shoulders shook, her words garbled. “I’m a bad mom. I’m a bad person. I fucked this all up from the start.”
