After some trial and error, Angeni determined that afternoons were her best creative windows. She wasn’t pleased with her progress on the book. Mostly, she’d been putting different ideas into a Word document titled “Book Stuff,” but she wasn’t sure how these thoughts would make themselves into a cohesive manuscript. She was doing her best to trust the process, to let Spirit guide her. It was still early days, and the mental energy needed for a book was immense. She couldn’t expect too much of herself. She had to practice the self-compassion she so often preached.
Freya was thriving. That was what mattered most. If Freya was thriving, Angeni was a success.
She breastfed Freya, then gave her some bites of chicken-liver pâté for her lunch. For at least the first two years of Freya’s life, Angeni wanted breast milk to be Freya’s primary source of sustenance, with food being more for practicing different tastes and textures. Her plan was to breastfeed through three years, or longer if Freya wanted. Angeni knew people thought it was strange when children breastfed beyond babyhood.
Once they can ask for the boob with words, they’re too old.
There were comments along those lines in every post in which she mentioned her intention to breastfeed long-term. This was what was wrong with society—rushing women through these precious moments of motherhood, encouraging them to have their babies sleep independently and find other sources of nutrition beyond the breast as soon as possible.
“Hey,” Sitka said, coming into the kitchen to prepare her own lunch.
Every day, Sitka ate the same thing—two slices of Angeni’s homemade sourdough bread, slathered in peanut butter and raspberry jam from the farmers market. Angeni had made the mistake once of offering Sitka a glass of raw milk with her meal, explaining how it contained more amino acids and natural probiotics than the altered milk most people drank. Sitka had looked at Angeni like she was the stupidest person on the planet and said, “I’ll skip the listeria juice, thanks.” Angeni didn’t bother trying to defend her choices, but she did make a mental note to share more about raw milk on Instagram.
“Do you mind feeding her a few more bites of pâté?” Angeni asked Sitka. “I think I’m going to heat up some of that chili I made the other day.”
“Sure,” Sitka said.
Sitka scooted her stool next to Freya’s high chair and lifted the tiny spoon, moving it around Freya’s face and making airplane noises before saying, “Coming in for a landing” and putting the spoon in Freya’s mouth. Freya thought it was hysterical. Was Angeni playful enough with Freya? She was so often consumed with tending to Freya’s basic needs. She needed to focus on infusing more play. She added this topic to her list of future Instagram posts.
Angeni put the leftover pot of chili on the stove and turned on the burner. She was debating whether or not to ask Sitka about her post this morning. She both craved and feared Sitka’s opinion.
“Horrible about that shooting in Cincinnati, right?” Angeni started.
Sitka was still doing the spoon-airplane thing with Freya, the two of them in their own little world.
“Shooting?” Sitka asked, eyes still on Freya.
So she hadn’t seen the post. If she’d seen it, she would have read the caption and comments and known about the tragedy.
“A school. Six children were killed.”
“Oh, that’s awful.”
“Yeah, it is. I posted something about it. Anyway,” she said, stopping short of asking Sitka to read the post and give her thoughts right thereon the spot. Since when was Angeni so insecure? It was the book project getting to her, making her question her abilities and worth.
“I’ll probably take Freya into the forest today while you write, if that’s okay,” Sitka said. “It’s so beautiful out.”
“Okay, that’s fine,” Angeni said. “Send me photos. I like to feel like I’m there too. It’s so hard to be inside when it’s beautiful out.”
“How’s the writing coming along?” Sitka asked.
“Can I be honest with you?”
Angeni needed to be honest with someone, and she surprised herself by deciding that person was Sitka.
Sitka finally looked up from feeding Freya and said, “Of course.”
“I’m struggling with it. The book.”
“Oh,” Sitka said. Her face morphed from surprised to pensive. “Well, it is abook. I don’t suppose you’ve written one before?”
Angeni shook her head.
“I mean, that’s quite the undertaking, writing a book. I can’t imagine you thought it would be ...easy?”
Angeni had a hard time deciphering if Sitka was empathizing with the difficulty of the task at hand, or if she was calling Angeni foolish for attempting it.
“Maybe not easy. But I thought it would be easier than it is.”
