The stuff is really cute. I thank him. But I still feel nothing.
“I don’t wanna be cold like my mother,” I say. “I’m scared, Ace.”
“It won’t be like this forever.” He sits next to me and pulls me into him. “It’s growing pains. You’re gonna be a good mother. You know how I know that?”
I shake my head.
“Because when you love somebody, you’re ferocious with that love. You go to war for us. It won’t be any different with Arlo. You’ll see.”
I burrow in closer, burying my face in the side of his neck.
“It’s okay, baby. I promise.”
I wanna believe that, but I know myself too well.
Once I finish crying, Ace helps me stand. Peeing is excruciating, but the sitz bath they gave me helps with that.
“Take a nap,” he says as he helps me to the bedroom. “I’ll wake you up when he gets up.”
He leaves me to myself, but he doesn’t shut the door all the way. As I drift off to sleep, I hear him next door in the office.
Crying.
49
Ace
It’s 2 a.m.
Arlo’s stirring. He’s not in full-on crying mode yet, but it’s coming. We’ve been home two weeks now, and I’ve learned all of his sounds.
The only problem is, once you learn the current ones, he’s on to some different ones. New cries drop every other day, it seems.
But that’s a good problem to have.
I slide out of bed and get my son out of the bassinet. I go into the nursery to change him, and once he’s nice and dry, I cradle him until he scrunches that little face up and starts to wail.
“Alright, little man. Let’s go wake up Mommy.”
I wait as long as I can to wake her for feedings. That girl is exhausted, I can tell. But she doesn’t complain. She just does what needs to be done.
In this situation, that’s really all I can ask of her.
When Arlo came out, I had a panic attack. I don’t think Raya even noticed, and for that, I’m thankful. The birth took me backto when Elijah was born and the joy that followed, then the immediate chaos, followed by the realization and the pain.
The whole time Raya was in labor, I was waiting for the worst to happen. I was lowkey working myself up for it. But everything was perfect.
Almost everything.
But she’s trying.
When we get back to the bedroom, Raya’s already sitting up. Her hair is falling out of her bonnet, her t-shirt is twisted halfway around her body, and her eyes are puffy. But she’s ready to go. My baby is a trooper.
“You ready?”
She nods, pulls her arm through her t-shirt, and exposes her breast.
I make the transfer, and it feels like it always does—like I’m handing over something sacred. It’s almost ceremonial. I’m sure she doesn’t see it that way, but that’s okay. I’m sentimental enough for both of us.
