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“We can pump, Mama. Want me to go get it?” he asks, pivoting to leave.
Feeling the word-vomit boiling to the surface, I snap before I can fully register it all. “What other choice do I have, Kings?” I bite, my face going red and my palms getting sweaty.
What the hell is wrong with me? As fast as I attacked him, I start apologizing, his face going cold. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
“Yeah, no, it’s fine. We’re all just tired. I’ll go get the pump.” As he turns on his heels fast, I close my eyes and shake my head.
I’ve been doing this for the past few days. Anything and everything seems to give me a bitchy attitude. My mom and dad got some of that blunt sass, and I saw my dad physically restraining from putting me in my place like a child.
When they left yesterday to head back to Utah, he bit his tongue, kissed my forehead, and left. Everyone has been doing this, walking on pins and needles. Instead of telling me to settle down, they cower. That must be rubbing off on our son, since he won’t latch.
I try to drown out my thoughts and focus on my little man. My eyes soak in his image, the soft plump lips pouting in and out with his breathing. The green eyes that look just like Kingston’s, and my hell, his chubby cheeks, arms, and legs are the epitome of perfection. Finally, my anxiety settles, my heart rate evens out, and my attitude simmers.
Princeton has a way of centering me. The only time I feel complacent, safe...whole is when he and I are in an embrace. He’s cradled in my arms, the emblem of my happiness.
“Here, do you want me to hold him while you do this?” As Kingston hands me the pump, I nod, reluctant as I let him take Prince.
“Watch his head, Kings.”
“Lana, I got it,” he snaps back.
I didn’t mean to come off rude; he’s just a little aggressive and not as gentle as I am. “Sorry. It’s just he’s not a football.”
“Really? Thank you. I had no idea.”
I roll my eyes, unpacking the pump and ignoring his comment. Day five, and he and I are fighting. Welcome to the world, Prince.
I watch him move around the room, rocking our baby as he starts to fuss. My hands start to twitch, aching to reach out to take him and make him all better, but I don’t for the purpose of not fighting with Kings. I keep pumping until I have enough for a bottle.
Handing it to Kings, he brings the bottle to Princeton’s lips and he latches instantly, and an aching ping of jealousy attacks my chest right then. Why can’t he latch onto me like that? I lean back and rock the chair softly, my eyes drifting closed while I listen to Kings humming and Prince suckling the bottle. Aside from it being hard on me for him not latching, it brings me comfort to know he’s eating, being nurtured.
“He’s dozing off. Why don’t you go get into bed and I’ll bring him in when he’s out?”
Too exhausted to say no or put up a fight, I nod. Overruling my anxiety with my need for some rest, I forfeit.
“Okay.” Standing, I give Prince a quick kiss on his forehead. Ready to sleep, I drag my zombie feet into our room, flinging myself onto the bed, and instantly, my eyes start sliding shut.
Kingston and I are both irritable. It seems that having Princeton ripped away from us before we even had a chance to have skin-on-skin or greet him got the best of both of us. That has to be why I’m moody as all hell and why he isn’t putting up with any of it. We should be enjoying this time with our newborn, instead of fighting and bickering at every turn.
Watching them whisk him out of that room, though, was enough to make any person mental. At first, I assumed the worst. I mean, I could hear the crying and healthy screams. He looked healthy from what little glimpses I saw, leading me to worry about why they pulled him away.
There is nothing, no pain, no fear, no situation that I have ever faced like that one. Princeton Troy Donovan is my purpose, and the second I heard that cry, I knew it was the sound of my heartbeat. Without him, my heart would never beat again. When it echoed down the hall and disappeared slowly, my heart slowed down with it, vanishing with him.
“Are you hungry?” Kingston pulls me from a fog, placing little Prince in his bassinet next to the bed.
“Oh, um, what are you thinking? I can whip something up.” I go to stand, but he stops me.
“No, I was thinking about just ordering in or running to pick something up. You need to relax. It’s been a hard couple of days.” His eyes wander to Prince, and I see those eggshells under his feet cracking as he fails to dodge them. I take a few relaxing breaths, not wanting to fight, and I look back up at him.
“I could go for some pizza. How does that sound to you?”
His hooded eyes leave mine with a quick nod. “Sure. I’ll get the usual.” With that, he makes a hasty retreat, leaving the room as if it were set ablaze and I was the one holding the matches.
Standing, I move to the bassinet and look over my son’s sleeping form. Making sure I won’t disturb his rest, I pull on the bassinet and scoot it close to the bed; that way I can see him.
He only purses his lips and moves his tiny mitten-covered fingers a little before he settles, his eyes still closed and his breathing heavy. I lie back and close my eyes, listening to the sounds of Prince breathing and kids playing outside on the street from our open balcony doors. All those little things are now more noticeable when my senses are on alert. Since Prince was born, I’ve been on full stealth mode, and I have a feeling that will not change.
Prince is four months old today. Lana and I are more distant than we have ever been. No, she never left. She is, in fact, still here, within touching distance, but so far removed from me and us and who we were. The familiarity of us is now forgotten as we dance around each other like strangers passing on the street.
