Your grandparents have not arrived. Michael is sick with stones, they are pebbling his kidney and causing awful pain.
Fall is a freight train of blue sky today.
Tonight, your father will attend a talk called "The Future of Life." I will sit at home on the couch, the Guatemalan pillows pressed up against both my thighs, and nurse you. Daddy will eat at President Anderson's house. You and I will sit amongst piles of laundered clothes that I haven't had the energy to place into drawers. I will rub my thumb over your black hair while we watch Law and Order.
During the day, you are now awake for longer than you sleep. Last night, I woke up so angry at your father I could barely speak. I cried while I nursed you. He opened one blue eye and asked if I wanted to talk about it. I choked out all my complaints while he listened and then I turned out the light and we tried to sleep but you were awake and inconsolable. So Grandma Ricki took you downstairs and we slept and when she woke me at 5:30am to nurse you I wasn't angry anymore.
We talked more this morning. We get along better in sunshine with blueberry pancakes and coffee and syrup and raspberries. It's hard for him to feel as connected to you as I do when most of the time it's my breast that you want, singularly and wholeheartedly. Last night he watched as you turned from facing him to facing me. Then you lowered your head so you would be as close to the smell of my nipple as possible. And Daddy has been waiting so long for his parents to arrive...and then yesterday they didn't. He is sad and frustrated and I am exhausted with the weight of being your sole font of everything. We forget to be gentle.
But he looked handsome leaving for work today: yellow and black striped tie over a maroon shirt. A sport coat for the first time this year. Silver watch chain dangling from his pocket.
You sleep between us; sometimes we go days without really touching.
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