Scene from my new life
4am Sunday morning
R. sitting on the couch rocking Georgia after I nursed her. Me sitting in the glider hooked up to the Medela pump (low milk supply makes it necessary for me to pump after every feeding), teets hanging out of two slits I’ve cut out of an old sports bra. We are half asleep, wisps of drool leaking from mouths (all of ours). Tony Bennett and k.d. lang’s version of “What a Wonderful World” plays in the background as part of a lullaby tape a friend gave me. Georgia is alert, a rare state, but typical for her in the middle of the night. She reaches out to touch R.’s chest — first time her little hand seems to make conscious contact with him. It is sweet, unexpected, a reward for all our hard work. The music is sappy, but since giving birth I’ve become an emotional puddle. I say, “I think I’m going to cry.” R. says, “I already am” and I see that he is, his face a few shades redder than usual, eyes squeezed shut, shoulders shaking.
