A small bag of groceries nests in the basket under the bassinet—a few treats to supplement this week’s NourishBox, including a jar of preserved cherries for Clementine. They were on sale, and I’m looking forward to surprising her. She’s been a wonderful big sister so far, despite a brief moment of disappointment upon realizing she had a baby sister and not a brother. We discussed the name Gillian, so Clementine could still use “Gill” as a nickname. But Clem had another name in mind, and Wyatt and I agreed to let her name the baby, after everything that happened.
I glance at the name Shelby embroidered in purple thread onto thebaby’s muslin blanket, conflicting emotions racing through me. The name suits her beautifully, and yet, something about it continues to trouble me. A lingering sense the name didn’t come to Clementine in a dream, like she says it did.
While the stroller has a music feature (the baby prefers classical, especially to fall asleep to), it’s turned off this morning. Instead, we’re enjoying the cacophony of birdsongs, the slight hiss and rumble of the trains as they leave the neighborhood station. The sounds of small children humming Clara the Cloud songs, scuffing their soles on the sidewalks as they skip, holding on to their parents’ hands. A gentle breeze rustles through the leaves overhead.
Holding tightly to the stroller, I pause at the crosswalk. The lights and crossbars that provide safe passage engage, timed to my arrival. Another woman pushes a stroller from the other direction, though she’s not holding the handle like I do. Her stroller is in self-driving mode, a useful feature as she holds two other children’s hands—one of theirs in each of hers. We smile, say “good morning” as we pass each other at the midpoint of the crosswalk.
My stroller also has self-driving mode. But I haven’t gone hands-off yet. Evelyn, from my MotherHelper group, tearfully recounted last week how her stroller malfunctioned, nearly tipping over when it came too close to the sidewalk’s curb. Wyatt reassured me that our stroller, a brand-new model, has no such issues—Evelyn’s was first-generation technology.
“This is three iterations past that, Tilly,” he said, showing me the robust safety data. Still, it’s not worth the risk and so I keep my hands firmly on the handlebar. I’m nostalgic for my first stroller, Clementine’s, which had none of these newfangled technologies.
I’m beginning to sweat, beads dotting the back of my neck, under my arms. Thank goodness I chose my white linen tank top this morning, my current favorite because it has a lower-cut neckline that showcases the necklace. The two gold rings really stand out against the white fabric.
I’m about to turn right when I hear a woman’s voice from my left. “Tilly! Hi!”
It’s Yasmeen Taff, who is new to the neighborhood, as well as to our postpartum MotherHelper group. Kat is Yasmeen’s mentor and has taken her under her wing. Yasmeen has even joined us at a couple of breath work classes and dinners and fits in well. I suspect our threesome may soon become a foursome friend group.
“Hey, Yasmeen,” I reply. “How are you?”
Yasmeen and her family moved from London, England, two months ago. Her husband—a bioengineer—took a position at a medical 3-D printing company, which has a satellite lab in town.
Yasmeen’s eldest is Clementine’s age (a boy named Idris), and rounding out her family is a five-year-old daughter named Mariam and a four-month-old baby boy, Anwar, whom she has on her front in a wrap-style carrier.
We stand to the side to avoid cluttering the sidewalk. Yasmeen sets a hand against Anwar’s back, leaning slightly forward to peek under my stroller’s canopy.
“Oh my goodness, look at your perfect girl.” Yasmeen smiles. “Such a great sleeper already, and at only three months! Ani here remains stubborn about sleep, as you can see.”
She laughs and twists slightly so I can see her baby’s face. He gives a gummy grin when I coo at him. His blinks lengthen, telling me he’s actively fighting slumber.
“It’s the only way he’ll nap. On my front, while I walk. At least it’s good for my step count.” She pats Anwar’s back, bouncing slightly in that unconscious way moms do when holding a baby.
Just then a cicada drops from the tree, landing in the stroller. It buzzes loudly, its bulbous body with the green-metallic sheen bright against the soft-pink blanket.
“Oh my goodness! Shoo!” Yasmeen says, waving a hand over the top of the stroller. “I loathe these things. They’reeverywhere.”
I reach for the cicada with gentle fingers. I hold it in my palm, noting the bright red eyes. “They’re actually quite fascinating. Most of their life is spent underground, but they can live up to seventeen years.”
Crouching, I place the bug on a patch of grass, out of the way of pedestrians and bicycle wheels. “The nymphs feed on fluid that flows through underground roots, and each spring—during the growing season—there’s an uptick in the fluid. The nymphs count the years based on these fluctuations and then crawl out of the ground when it is precisely sixty-four degrees outside. It’s remarkable, really.”
Yasmeen stares at me, nodding slowly. “Yes, that is interesting…if you like bugs.”
I laugh. “I’m not sure ‘like’ is the right word, but I don’t mind bugs.”
“I mind them,a lot.” She shudders, glancing at the cicada in the grass. “Anyway, are you headed to the meeting later?”
I nod. “You?”
“I am, though I may be a few minutes late because Ani has a checkup right before. Would you mind telling Kat and Margie? It will save me a note.”
“Happy to,” I say.
We talk for a minute or so about the weather, about Idris and Clementine’s teacher for the upcoming year, who we both agree is wonderful. Yasmeen asks about a good place to get fenugreek supplements, to boost milk supply. As an expat, she didn’t qualify for the NourishBox program, so I promise to send her the milk-making muffin recipe. She wants to invite me, Kat, and Maeve over for a post–breath work dinner, which I say sounds fantastic.
“I have to tell you, Tilly,” Yasmeen continues. “I don’t know what you’re doing, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen a mom to a three-month-old baby who looks so rested and relaxed.”
I smile sympathetically, for Yasmeen doesnotlook rested, withdarkish circles under her eyes giving away that baby Anwar isn’t sleeping well at night either. She also has stress blemishes across her cheeks that look like raised red freckles.
“I’m taking it as easy as I can, not pushing it,” I say. “Besides, you have three kids and two dogs and zero help at home. I have Clementine, but she’s so independent these days, and my mother-in-law is a savior.”
