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An inconvenient, confusing, wonderful week.
I change quickly before following the milk-inducing cries, knowing I’ll find the source downstairs like I do most mornings. Like I also do most mornings, I pause in the kitchen archway. Admire the view. Marvel over it like one marvels over an exquisite piece of artwork or a rare animal. To me, I guess a father lovingly doting on my kids is rare. And this particular father is definitely exquisite.
Especially, I have learned over the past seven days, with a baby strapped to his chest.
“Mornin’, Mama,” August greets like he always does, soft and sweet.
“Morning, mama,” Cass repeats like he always does, raspy and tempting and quite frankly irritating. A palm cupping the back of October’s head like it always is. Lips grazing her forehead like they always do—lips quirking like they always do when the action makes me tense, like he knows the effect it has on me.
He’s doing it on purpose, I’m sure. Using the baby as physiological warfare—if I’m fawning over how exceptionally he’s taken to fatherhood, I can’t possibly be mad at him.
It’s working and it isn’t. I’ll forget momentarily, and then a switch will flip in my brain and I remember this is temporary. I remember that he left, and I remember that he’s leaving again, God knows when, and all I have is the hope that maybe he’ll give me a head’s up this time.
Blinking the stars out of my eyes, I refocus my attention elsewhere.
“You’re gonna be late,” I mutter into August’s hair as I kiss the back of his head, wrapping my arms around him from behind and squeezing.
He huffs a dismissive noise, abandoning his breakfast in favor of twisting to shoot me puppy-dog eyes. “I can always skip. Hang out with Toby.”
Look at that; psychological warfare is contagious. Poor October is just a pawn wielded against me. “Get outta here, little boy.”
He pouts and he pleads, but he eventually scrams, bidding his beloved sister goodbye so sweetly, I almost forget him going to school leaves just Cass and me alone all day.
And Toby. My sweet Toby.
My sweet Toby who I admittedly use as a pawn of my own when I steal her from her father, feeding her as an excuse to do something other than twiddle my thumbs and stare at the ceiling.
Unfortunately, breastfeeding brings about its own set of problems. Foolish, insecure problems.
Like he always does when I whip out a boob, Cass averts his gaze. And like always, I silently fester. There’s no jokes or crass humor or even—and I’m taking several steps back in the feminist agenda right now—some good ol’ fashioned leering. I know I’m not flaunting them for his viewing pleasure but c’mon. They’re huge. And literally right in front of him. And he is definitely a boob guy. Not a single shameful glance? Forgive me for taking it a little personally.
“You don’t have to do that,” I hate, I literallydespise, myself for snipping. “Nothing you haven’t seen before.”
Keeping my eyes on my girl, I watch in my peripheral as Cass lifts an arm, bicep flexing as he scratches the back of his neck. “It’s different.”
Because we’re not together. Oh, no, that’s right—we never were. All of it was fake. Fake, fake, fake. Maybe he faked ever liking my body at all, that seems probable. Or maybe he just doesn’t like it now. All soft and squishy post-baby.Hisfreaking baby.
How typical. For months, he waxed poetic about my pregnant body and now, what do I get? A respectfully averted gaze. He has absolutely zero boundaries when it comes to talking about my body—he’ll ask about my bleeding uterus and my clogged ducts and my fucking pelvic floor—but he won’t check me out.
Rude.
“Your overthinking is hurting my head.”
Yeah, well. He’s hurting my heart—I luckily only say internally, but still bid the last shreds of my dignity goodbye.
With a long-suffering sigh, Cass unravels the baby carrier around his chest. He sets it down before rounding the island to stand beside me, propping one elbow on the marble as he peers down at me, all meaningful and shit. “Are you gonna talk to me today?”
Because I can’t help myself, I counter, “Are you gonna leave today?”
“No.”
I grit my teeth in a terrible excuse for a smile. “I do talk to you.” As much as I can bear. About silly, inconsequential things like Toby’s rapid hair growth and dinner plans and whether or not he’s storing my refrigerated breast milk properly—riveting stuff.
“You talkatme, Sunday.” And he doesn’t like that one bit, his tone says. “We have things to talk about.”
My heart stutters for a beat. “I know.”
“A real conversation, please. Not one you make up in your head.”
