“Chest is clear.”
He took out another tool with a light on the end and looked in Vincent’s ears. This made him scream even louder and thrash in my arms.
“Ooh, this ear is very angry.” He took him from me again and shuffled to the couch. “Shh. It’s okay, bud.” With careful movements, he laid Vincent on his back on the couch, thenpressed lightly on his tummy and moved his legs and arms. “Nice and soft. Good job, bud,” he cooed.
“He definitely has an ear infection. Probably from a virus. He’ll be okay for the night. We can take him in first thing in the morning. Get him some antibiotics.”
My stomach rolled. A virus? “Who exposed him to germs?” I growled.
Jasper gave me a sympathetic smile. “Germs are everywhere. It’s okay. Let’s call the twenty-four-hour medical line and ask about the appropriate dosage of children’s Tylenol.”
We had to leave a message with the answering service and wait for a return call, but within minutes, Sheri, one of the nurse practitioners, called and spoke to Jasper, instructing him on the correct dosage of medicine and suggested we bring Vincent in tomorrow.
Jasper was so calm and cool. And I was… the opposite. A sweating, hysterical mess.
“I’m sorry,” I said, my whole body tense. “Seeing him in pain. It makes it impossible to think straight.”
“Of course it does,” he soothed. “It’s biological. You’re his mom. The connection between you is primal. It’s okay to be shaken up. But we can manage this.”
After we gave Vincent the Tylenol, he changed the little guy and walked around the room, once again rubbing circles on his back.
In a matter of minutes, Vincent’s cries turned into sniffles. God, this man was far more capable than I gave him credit for.
As I sank into the couch, I was hit by a wave of shame. Feeling helpless like this brought back so many painful memories from my childhood and even my early adult years. Of the moments I failed or couldn’t fix things for myself or others.
Of the times my father berated me.
Calling me a loser. Telling me how much I embarrassed him.
For the most part, I kept these memories locked away in the back of my mind, but once in a while, they popped up and played on a loop in my head.
“Are you okay?” Jasper asked as he continued swaying Vincent, even though he’d quieted and gone to sleep. “You’re crying.”
Shit. Really? How messed up was it that I’d been so caught up in yelling at myself that I hadn’t even realized tears were streaming down my damn face?
“I’m so sorry.” I waved him off. “It’s stupid.”
“Nothing is stupid,” he murmured, eyes locked on me. “You can tell me. Let me put him down. I’ll be right back.”
He returned a few minutes later and sat next to me on the couch, setting the baby monitor on the table in front of us.
“You’re pale and sweating,” he said, bringing the back of his hand to my forehead. “Are you feeling sick too?”
“No. No.” I shook my head, ducking to hide the tears in my eyes. “I’m just happy Vincent is okay. And…” I heaved out a breath. “I’m happy you’re here.”
“You can talk to me,” he said, angling closer and meeting my eye. “We’re friends.”
Friends.
I both loved and hated the term.
When Vincent was born, I prayed that someday Jasper and I could be friends. That we could respect and care for one another as coparents.
Now, though, the word felt hollow.
Both too much and not enough at the same time.
“Sometimes, when I’m tired or overwhelmed, old memories surface,” I explained.
