I glance at the glowing white numbers of my bedside clock. My son is ninety-two hours old.
My son.
He has my chin and Franki’s eyebrows.
He’s learning moment by moment whether he can trust this life we brought him into. And I don’t have an equation to solve for him.
I can’t write a proof on a SMART Board.
Ian squirms in his bassinet and makes a series of grunting sounds. Immediately, I climb from the bed, fumble for my glasses, and turn the bedside lamp on its lowest setting. If he’s hungry again, Franki will wake to feed him, but she needs as much sleep as she can manage.
I reach him in two steps and bend over to peer down at him.
His grunts turn to a pathetic, half-hearted wail.
I lift him into my arms, careful to hold him the right way, supporting his head. He’s so light. So small.
Mom says we’ll learn what every single one of his cries mean. She says I’ll understand sooner, rather than later. And love is enough to make up the difference.
But what if I don’t find the pattern?
His cries grow a little louder.
He just finished nursing and isn’t rooting. Not hungry, but maybe he needs to burp.
When one of the nurses patted his back the first time, I lost my shit. It seemed too firm for an infant so small. But he liked it.
I lift him to my shoulder and pat his back as I walk with him toward the door. A wet burble erupts from my son.
I freeze.
Note to self: Do not forget to use a burp cloth next time.
Under any other circumstance, the sensation of Ian’s spit up on my shoulder would be distracting. But I can’t think about that now with my chest tightening like a vise with every second of his distress.
Franki sits up sleepily and reaches for her glasses. “Is he hungry?”
I shake my head and bounce him carefully in my arms. “I don’t think so. I’m going to check his diaper. You can sleep. I’ll bring him to you if he needs to nurse.”
Ian grows quiet in my arms. The bouncing appears to be effective. I’ll need to note the details on his spreadsheet. Grunting cries need burping and bouncing.
Franki folds herself back into bed, fully asleep before her head reaches her pillow.
Ian’s wails begin again, despite the bouncing.
Oliver climbs from his bed in the corner, gives himself a shake, then trots at my heels.
The back patting and bouncing aren’t working. Ian’s warm little body has only grown stiffer. When I reach the nursery next door, I turn the light on low and lay him on the changing table.
The sound of Velcro separating adds another layer of sensory overload when I remove his light green swaddling. The moment his arms are free, he throws out little fists, flexing what looks like every muscle in his body.
I smile. “That’s a big stretch.”
He settles into peaceful quiet and peers up at me with eyes not quite able to focus yet. I make another mental note to add a description of the pitch and rhythm of his grunting cry to the spreadsheet on my phone later. This doesn’t match my previous data, but his cry was slightly lower and more rhythmic than the times swaddling soothed him.
He frowns, his forehead an angry wrinkle. Then the wails start again.
The pause was seconds long. It wasn’t the swaddling bothering him, but I’d already suspected his need for a diaper change.
