Tied(2)

Even with the birth of a child on its résumé, Kate’s cooch is just as snug and feels just as amazing as it did that first time. God bless you, Dr. Kegel.

My hips speed up and change their trajectory, thrusting to and fro in hard, quick strokes. When I know she can’t take it anymore, I cover her mouth with mine, muffling her blissful cry. As much as I crave the sound of Kate’s voice, these days it’s all about staying quiet. Covert.

Why? you ask.

Let’s pause here a minute and I’ll explain.

It’s our golden rule. Our first commandment: Don’t wake the f*cking baby.

I’ll repeat that in case you missed it:

DON’T WAKE THE FUCKING BABY.

Like . . . ever.

Still don’t get it? Must not have kids then. See, children are beautiful. Precious. Angelic. Particularly when they’re asleep. If they’re disturbed mid-sleep-cycle, however? They’re monsters. Irritable, angry little beasts who bear a striking resemblance to gremlins fed after midnight.

And the cold truth is, even when they’re well rested, babies are pretty frigging selfish. Self-centered and demanding. They don’t care what you were doing before they needed you, or—more important—whom you were trying to do. They only care about themselves. They’re hungry. They’re wet. They want you to pick them up because the view from the crib has gotten old.

For all you happy couples out there awaiting the arrival of your own darling little cockblocker? I’m gonna tell you how it really is—not the utopian bullshit they feed you in those What to Expect books.

Here it goes: In the days after they’re born, when you’re still in the hospital, all infants do is sleep. I think the numbers are like twenty-three out of a twenty-four-hour day. I think they’re slipping something into those bottles in the nursery.

Anyway, after a day or two, if all goes well, the hospital sends you home. And that’s when the baby decides that it’s slept enough. And finds something else to do to pass the time.

Did you know an infant’s cry is twenty decibels higher than a train whistle? I shit you not. Look it up if you don’t believe me.

By day three, I was convinced something was wrong with James. Maybe he had a gastrointestinal disorder. Maybe he was allergic to the wallpaper.

Maybe he just didn’t f*cking like us.

Whatever the reason, he was not a happy camper. And he was all too eager to let us know it. In the morning. In the afternoon. And—his favorite—all through the night.

Once in a while, just to screw with us, he’d mix it up and pass out for a while. But if he was awake? Yep—he was bawling. And I’m not talking about lip-quivering whimpers, either. Hell no. I’m talking lung-expanding, arm-and-leg-kicking, bansheelike screeching.

Shaken baby syndrome? I totally get that now.

Not that we were gonna go nuclear on his ass, but honestly? It wasn’t fun.

My mother came over a lot, and at first I was relieved. I figured she’d done this twice before, she’d know how to fix him. Moms always make everything better.

Only . . . she didn’t.

All she did was smile in that infuriatingly calm way while she bounced our squawking newborn on her shoulder. Then she’d tell us it was normal. That all babies cried. That Kate and I just had to figure out our own way of doing things.

I’d never before had the urge to strangle my mother. I’d never understood psychos like the Menendez brothers or Jim Gordon. But in those dark days when sleep—and blow jobs—were a distant memory, I’m sorry to say matricide was looking pretty damn attractive.

Because I was sure my mother knew the secrets of a happy baby—that she held the Keys to the Kingdom in her grasp. But for some evil, vengeful reason, she just wasn’t handing them the f*ck over. And sleep deprivation can drive you crazy. Even the most absurd ideas suddenly look like viable options.

One time, it was around four in the morning and I . . .

Actually, it might be better if I just show you, so you can get the full effect. Yes, it’s a flashback within a flashback—but you’re smart, you can handle it. I’ll speak slowly, just in case:

James, five days old:

“Whaaa, whaaa, whaaa, whaaa.”

In the time it takes my eyes to crack open and interpret the numbers on the alarm clock, Kate is already sitting up, ready to spring out of bed and scoop up the swaddled ball of angry in the bassinet beside the bed.

Four a.m.

Mentally, I groan—because it’s been less than an hour since he fell asleep. Although my first egotistical instinct is to close my eyes and let Kate deal with it, the part of me that wants to help out while I can—because I don’t want her to lose her mind—backhands the selfish part.

“Whaaaaaaaa, whaaaaaaaa.”

“I got him, Kate.” I toss the covers off and slip on a pair of sweats. “Go back to sleep.” I’m kind of hoping she fights me over it . . . but she doesn’t. She flops back down against the pillow.

I pick James up and hold him against my bare chest. His cheek nuzzles my skin before he unleashes a heartbroken cry. I walk out of the bedroom with him to the kitchen. From the fridge I grab a bottle of breast milk, which Kate filled this afternoon with that weird dairy-cow pump thing she got from Delores at the baby shower. Holding James with one hand, I run the bottle under hot water the way the lactation adviser at the hospital instructed us to do.