* * *

? ? ?

Eventually I left my bed and turned my attention back to Life. I cleaned up Violet’s breakfast, I made make-believe castles, I threw pile after pile of clothes in the dryer. But when he wasn’t with me, my mind was with him, up in that nursery.

Violet didn’t care much for Sam at first, although she watched carefully every time I latched him for a feeding. She would often feel her own flat chest as he drank from me, as though she was bewildered by the function of a woman’s breasts. When he was done, she would leave the room, wanting to be alone most of the time.

Sam fell madly in love with her in the months that followed. Soon, he would light up when he heard her voice come out the school door at pickup.

“There’s your sister!” I’d say, and he’d kick his legs, desperate to get near her, aching for her face to come up right in front of his. She would jiggle his foot and off we’d go, back to our home, to the part of the day I feared the most. The three of us, alone, the minefield of the late afternoon, waiting for you to walk in the door. You were the great neutralizer.

You and me. We were partners, companions, creators of these two humans. But we lived increasingly different lives, like most parents do. You were cerebral and creative, inventing spaces and sight lines and perspectives, your days concerned with lighting, elevation, finishes. You had three meals a day. You read sentences written for adults and you wore a very nice scarf. You had a reason to shower.

I was a soldier, executing a series of physical actions on a loop. Change the diaper. Make the formula. Warm the bottle. Pour the Cheerios. Wipe up the mess. Negotiate. Beg. Change his sleeper. Get her clothes out. Where’s the lunch box? Bundle them up. Walk. Faster. We’re late. Hug her good-bye. Push the swing. Find the lost mitten. Rub the pinched finger. Give him a snack. Get another bottle. Kiss, kiss, kiss. Put him in the crib. Clean. Tidy. Find. Make. Defrost the chicken. Get him up from the crib. Kiss, kiss, kiss. Change his diaper. Put him in the high chair. Clean up his face. Wash the dishes. Tickle. Change the diaper. Tickle. Put the snacks in a baggie. Start the washing machine. Bundle him up. Buy diapers. And dish soap. Race for pickup. Hello, hello! Hurry, hurry. Unbundle. Laundry in the dryer. Turn on her show. Time-out. Please. Listen to my words. No! Stain remover. Diaper. Dinner. Dishes. Answer the question again and again. Run the bath. Take off their clothes. Wipe up the floor. Are you listening? Brush teeth. Find Benny the Bunny. Put on pajamas. Nurse. A story. Another story. Keep going, keep going, keep going.

I remember one day realizing how important my body was to our family. Not my intellect, not my ambitions of a writing career. Not the person shaped by thirty-five years. Just my body. I stood naked in front of the mirror after taking off my sweater, which was covered in the pureed peas Sam had spit up. My breasts wilted like the plant in our kitchen that I could never remember to water. My stomach spilled over the indent from my underwear like the foam on the edge of my lukewarm latte. My thighs were marshmallows punctured with a roasting stick. I was mush. But the only thing that mattered was that I could physically keep us all going. My body was our motor. I forgave everything about the unrecognizable woman in the mirror. It never occurred to me then that my body would not be useful like that ever again: necessary, dependable, cherished.

Around that time, sex seemed to have changed even more for both of us. We were efficient. Rote. You were elsewhere while I straddled you. I, too, let my mind go. To the wet wipes I needed to buy. To the doctor’s appointment I’d forgotten to make. Where had I seen that recipe for the curry carrots? Summer dresses. Library books. These sheets I’d need to wash.

38

We can’t do it this morning, Fox, he’s got his swim class and then a playdate after, and I’ve already canceled on this mom twice. I told you this last week when I booked Violet for the dentist.”

“I don’t remember Violet having quite such a busy social life,” you said.

I was packing the diaper bag. She looked up at me from the floor where she was carefully tying her shoes. I shot you a look that said Not now. But your remarks were constant. You were consumed with jealousy on behalf of our daughter, who could not have cared less about how close her mother was with her new baby brother. She had adjusted, to the surprise of us all, almost seamlessly. The baby had defused the tension between Violet and me somehow, as though we were both now free to breathe a little. In this new space, she offered me small, measured gestures of affection—she sat closer to me during bedtime stories, she lifted her hand for a brief good-bye at the school doors.

We were making progress.

It was you I struggled with. You were supposed to have been happy for the mother I had finally found within myself when Sam arrived in our lives.

* * *

? ? ?

Your mom had visited for a few days the week before. You two were in the kitchen having a cup of tea after dinner on her last night while I cleaned up the toys in the living room. You both must have thought I was upstairs. You had thanked her for coming. Anytime, she said. I stood still when I heard her mention my name—that I seemed to be in much “better spirits” than I was before Sam was born.

“She loves that boy. I just wish she felt that same way about Violet.”

“Fox,” she had chastised, although gently. And then a few moments later, “The second time around is easier for some women. An easier adjustment.”