Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 154728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
I was secure in that decision as I gingerly got dressed into the easiest and most comfortable clothes I had. Even that took three times as long as it normally would’ve.
Kane put Mabel in the butterfly-print onesie Maisie had declared her ‘going home outfit.’ I hadn’t known such things existed. I would’ve left her in the hospital onesie and called it a day.
Still in our hospital room, Kane buckled her into the car seat—with the supervision of a nurse to ensure it was done correctly—doing it the same way he did everything thus far, with confidence and ease.
Mabel screamed bloody murder throughout the process, which had me horrified and panicked that he’d accidentally buckled a piece of her skin or bent one of her tiny limbs the wrong way.
The nurse informed me car seat screaming was par for the course, and once she was up and Kane was swinging the seat gently, Mabel quieted.
Kane smirked. “She doesn’t like to be strapped down and has to be constantly on the move. Who does that sound like?”
I smiled if only to mimic his ease, though I certainly didn’t feel it. Not only did Mabel’s crying do something primal and painful to my insides, but I did not feel at all calm. She was too small and her head lolled from side to side with a neck unable to support it. She was far too breakable. And I myself felt fragile, in pieces. Like a bunch of broken China inside a box. If you shook me, I’d rattle.
Then there was the issue that I could only take shuffled steps and had only just managed to walk with a straight spine.
We made the slow walk out of the hospital, the nurse following us to our car to ensure we installed the baby carrier into the base properly.
Then she just … left.
That was it. The last check, the last bit of help we’d get from the professionals. I stared after her as she disappeared through the doors of the hospital.
I had a sudden urge to run back—or shuffle painfully—then pound on the doors, begging to be let back in where the nurses were just a buzzer away. Because they knew things. Like Mabel choking on spit up was just fine. Or that blood gushing from me and puddling on the floor was normal.
I needed their confident, calming and most importantly, educated reassurance.
“Got you, Chef,” Kane murmured, somehow having calmed the now sleeping baby and ready to help me into the backseat with her.
He didn’t question my choice of seat in the car. I deduced that the front seat was too far away from her; I needed to be within touching distance and there to ensure that she continued breathing.
Positional asphyxiation. I’d read about that. It could happen in soft beds, car seats, if the infant was sleeping in one for too long. Suddenly, the laundry list of dangers seemed suffocating and overwhelming.
Kane’s gentle yet firm grip on me, helping me into the backseat, was the only thing that calmed my suddenly frantic mind.
He kissed me gently on the head, reaching in to buckle me and gaze at Mabel for a handful of seconds before closing the door quietly.
I reached over to her amazingly tiny hands, and she snuffled in her sleep, holding my finger tightly in her fist.
My chest clenched at the power of such a small gesture.
“Ready, Chef?” Kane asked, eyes latching onto mine in the rearview mirror.
I felt rather than heard the meaning in those words. He wasn’t just asking if I was ready to leave the parking lot; it felt like he was asking if I was ready to leave our prior lives behind to start a new one.
No was the answer.
Absolutely not.
Her tiny fist flexed around my finger.
“Yeah,” I whispered. “I’m ready.”
Second Night Syndrome.
I only knew the name of it because Maisie had warned me, delicately, as she had everything, when we arrived back home.
She and my mother were there waiting when we came home, food ready, arms open to take the baby while Kane and I devoured the first proper hot meal we’d had in what felt like forever.
It was simple—pasta with red sauce and a load of veggies. My mom and Maisie had both been talking constantly about the ‘warming’ foods I’d be consuming for the next forty days and the foods needed to help repair my womb, balance my hormones and increase my milk production.
Usually, I rolled my eyes at their more eccentric views, but I’d been reading up on different culture’s approaches to postpartum, and there was significant historical evidence to back up a lot of what they were saying.
So I did something that was rather painful for me—I let them take charge of all the food, refreshments and overall care.
I’d been eating pasta and sipping a mug of bone broth while Maisie told us about Second Night Syndrome.