6:08 am - I hear rustling grunts both over the baby monitor on my bedside table and from the baby's room the
mere 15 feet away. I lie still, wondering why we need the monitor. I start to pray that he falls back to sleep. He does not. I know good and well that he is hungry and there is little I can do. I'm tired. I want those last few minutes of rest before getting up. He starts to cry. The wife still sleeps.
I gently say "Kristin", feeling guilty. She doesn't stir. I say it a bit more forceful, yet still gentle,
"KRISTIN." "What?" she moans, not quite awake. I feel guilty again. I ask her the last time she fed the boy. She repeats, "What?" in the same confused tone as the first. Then, realizing what I asked mumbles, "2:30". I feel guilty again.
"It's 6:08", I try to say in my most supportive tone. Pause. No response.
I offer, "I'll go change him first before you feed him."
She mutters her appreciation as she rolls over.
The grunts turn to wails. I groan. I know this will not go well. I walk into Rowan's room and he is tensed up and crying hard. He seems unsatisfied with his savior this morning and I can feel his disappointment as I lift him out of bed. "I want the shorter, softer one. Not you."
I swiftly shift him to the changing table and try to cram a pacifier in his mouth. He refuses the offer with a sustained wail. The clock is ticking; the race is on. I fumble to unzip his sleeper, wrangle his legs loose and hopelessly search for the tape on his diaper. I blindly wipe his bottom in the dark and try the pacifier again. No deal.
"Mommy"
emanates from the next room over, like the buzzer of a game show telling me I just lost the grand prize. Kristin springs into action, finds Maureen's pacifier - she is pacified. Game on. I pull out a fresh diaper and try to put it on Rowan, but his little hand is blocking my attempts. I marvel at how strong this little person is but manage to get the job done.
Kristin comes to both of our rescue. Tag. Rowan and I are both relieved.
His prize? Mother's milk. My prize? Precious minutes of solitude in our kitchen for a quick fix - a double shot of
Medaglia D'oro (espresso.) This is a new brand I am trying out - the local imported foods shop stopped carrying Cellini, the brand I've come to know and love since my trip to Italy back in the late '90s. I hate change.
The TV monitor
focused on Maureen is on and she is stirring. I have time to look at my on-line Scrabble matches with my brothers - my move. I begin to shift the letters and I hear, "Mommy?" again. It's 6:35. The day has begun. My cup is half full.
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