“Aren’t you a happy little girl? Aren’t you?” I murmur, cooing at her.
“Knock, knock!” Shelby stands in the open doorway, Stanley in her arms.
“Hi, Nana,” I reply, coming up on one elbow. “Look at how strong our big girl is.”
Shelby smiles, eyes only for the baby. She’s a wonderful grandmother. So involved, ready anytime to change a diaper, read a story, fuss over the baby in a hundred other ways. Like she did—does—with Clementine. “Looks like y’all are having oodles of fun in here.”
I laugh, because tummy time is not the baby’s favorite, and she’s usually a moment away from pitching a fit.
“Stanley and I are headed out for a walk. Do you need me to pick anything up?”
She steps into the studio, and Stanley lets out a low growl from her arms.
“Stanley Charles Crewson, that is enough.” Shelby sighs. “I’m sorry, Tilly. The trainer is coming again later today. I told her there’s been some improvement, but then he goes ahead and proves me wrong.”
Stanley continues to growl my way, showing his teeth now, despite Shelby’s shushing. “It’s okay,” I reply. “He’s being protective of her. That’s not the worst thing.”
This is what the dog trainer, who specializes in “postnatal reintegration,” a fancy term for introducing your dog to your newborn, has told us. Stanley seems especially bothered when I’m close to the baby, something this trainer callsguarding behavior, which she assures us is fairly common and fixable.
“Well, I don’t care for it and we are going to get rid of that pesky instinct, aren’t we, young man?” Shelby kisses Stanley on the snout, and he stops growling.
“Enjoy your walk,” I say. “I can’t think of anything we need, but thank you.”
After Shelby and Stanley leave, my watch buzzes.
Time for your NourishSmoothie, Mom!
I get up from the ground, opening the door of the small refrigerator on my desk. The glass bottle is layered with different colored liquids, which blend together when I hit the button on its lid. MotherWise recommends one smoothie per day, to help with milk production and vitamin levels. It tastes like fresh-cut grass, with a hint of strawberry sweetness. Initially I had to plug my nose to drink it, but I’m getting used to the flavor after a few months.
I’m about to close the fridge door when a small box, the size of a bar of soap, beside it catches my eye.How did that get there?I frown, picking up the box. It’s supposed to be in the drawer. Maybe Clementine found it, was curious about what’s inside. The studio isn’t locked, the solvent cupboards removed, so nothing’s off-limits anymore.
However, the box makes me antsy. I should have sent it back.
The collection ofRhyothemis semihyalinadragonfly wings arrived last week. I have no memory of ordering them, two months ago from an entomologist in Texas according to the packing slip. First I think it’s a delivery error. Until I call the entomologist, who assures me she spoke to me directly about the order. This detail is hard to explain, but I write it off as sleep deprivation. “Mommy brain,” I declare to the confused entomologist, who laughs and commiserates, having a one-year-old at home herself.
I decide to return the shipment, but curious, I first take a peek inside. The wings are so delicate, so beautiful—thin as tissue paper, with fine webbed veins and patterns weaving through the translucence.Surely Clementine can use them in a craft or art project, I think.No point in paying to ship them back.
Now I open the box and remove a wing to show the baby with my soft-close tweezers.
“This is how you know what type of dragonfly this wing belongedto,” I tell the baby. I use a finger to gently touch a part of the wing, and the metallic purple-black patch there. “It’s so distinctive. So beautiful, don’t you think?”
The wing slips from the tweezers, fluttering down to the baby’s pudgy hand. “Oops! Need to be careful with this. They’re incredibly delicate.”
I retrieve the wing, being cautious not to pinch the baby’s skin, and then lean down and kiss her fuzz-covered head. I close my eyes and breathe in her delicious new-baby scent, a combination best described as soft as felt and sweet like milk. Setting the wing back into the box, I close it up and put it back on the desk.
Tummy time complete, I settle the baby into my front-body sling and turn on the vintage record player I found at a neighborhood swap a couple of weeks earlier. I only have two records but hope to grow my collection. Ever since the baby was born I’ve been fiercely nostalgic. Longing to re-create experiences from my own childhood, like listening to records with my mom. I set the needle down on one of the black vinyl discs, and there’s a slight scratching sound before the music begins.
I hum, swaying my hips to the melody, lightly singing a few bars here and there. Clementine and I plan to take singing lessons together—I’ve been cognizant of making time for my eldest, and this was her request. I suspect I’ll be hopeless, but Clementine seems to have inherited her dad’s vocal talents.
Reaching for one of the baby’s hands, I dip my head so I don’t have to stretch her arm too far. I use my teeth to nibble at her fingernails—experienced parents know this is the easiest and safest way to trim a baby’s nails. They’ve grown a touch long, and I don’t want her to scratch her face.
She’s relaxed, used to this, and after I finish her first hand I do the other. Then I push the small slivers of fingernail to the tip of my tongue and spit them onto my palm. I gather them into a pile, carefully setting them on top of the dragonfly-wing box.
I’m sipping my smoothie, trying to get to the last dregs of the bottle, when a drop escapes my lips and lands squarely on the baby’s nose. She starts, jerking slightly.
“Oh, I’m sorry, my love.” I feel badly for startling her, especially because she was nearly asleep.
Her face reddens and she begins to cry, big, fat tears falling from her scrunched-up eyes, my cotton T-shirt drinking them in. Setting the smoothie bottle down, I reach for a muslin cloth and dab her tiny button nose. Her heart beats like hummingbird wings against my chest as she wails, and I encircle her with my arms and rock gently.
