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’m s-sorry,” I hiccupped. “I’m just … I’m reading all these books.” I thrust my hand out to the kitchen island where I’d been pouring over the countless books I’d purchased that promised twelve-hour sleeps, calm babies and set routines.
“I’ve followed them to a T,” I continued. “I’m a chef—well, I used to be a chef—” I was overcome by another bone-racking sob. “Before I became a mother, I was a chef. And I know how to follow directions. Precisely. My brain slotted things into place effortlessly. Having sixteen elements of a dish ready at precisely the same time was child’s play to me. Pardon the pun.” I laughed with a maniacal edge. “Now trying to figure out when exactly I should feed her and put her down for a nap seems akin to rocket science. It’s obviously me. Because millions…” I tapped the cover of the book, “millions of copies were sold to mothers who were obviously more competent than me and managed to do it all. Yet I’m not. I’m failing.”
There it was. The two words that haunted me most.
I’m failing.
Fiona, thankfully, didn’t do anything like bring me into her arms for a hug when I cried. That would’ve made me feel worse. She had just stood there, face free of judgment and listened to me. When it was clear that I was done, she spoke.
“I’m not an advocate for burning books,” Fiona said. “In most circumstances, it’s a crime.” She picked up the book on the counter then walked to the living room.
She piled my dog-eared, tearstained parenting and baby books in her slender arms, marching toward the backyard.
I followed her because she was talking about burning things and had picked up a lighter from where it sat on the counter beside a candle Maisie had left to ‘purify the air.’
Fiona walked past the patio set to the outdoor pizza oven that had been a big part of selling this place to me. I’d envisioned making pizzas with the sea breeze kissing my face, my baby happily watching me from a bouncer.
Not once had that thing been fired up.
Until now, with Fiona dumping a bunch of books in there then setting it alight without a second thought.
I watched with horror and satisfaction as the fire ate away at words that had taunted me with my failures.
Fiona didn’t speak straight away, she just watched the books burn.
“Some babies are book babies.” She waved to the fire. “They can respond to methods ‘experts’ concoct. Others are not. Our baby June is not a book baby. It sounds like Mabel isn’t either. I’m saving you months of overthinking and insanity.”
I watched the flames, not speaking.
‘You’ve got to survive the gauntlet.” She turned to face me as if she hadn’t just lit a fire in my backyard.
I was still clutching the baby monitor, so I glanced at it to find Mabel still sleeping.
“The first year of your baby’s life is the gauntlet,” Fiona explained. “Which is the first year of your relationship. Your new relationship. Where it isn’t just two people, hot sex and independence. There’s sleep deprivation, screaming, crying, dirty diapers, postpartum depression, sleep regressions, teething, illnesses.” She huffed out a breath, waving smoke away from her face.
I vaguely wondered if I needed a fire extinguisher. Not that I was overly worried. Small fires, I had experience with.
“I mean, I didn’t think I was a mother who would be preoccupied with nap schedules,” Fiona continued. “I watched my overly anxious and slightly insane—in the best way—friend have a baby. Nora obsesses over everything, but she did not obsess over naps or sleep. Her baby slept through the night from eight weeks. I took her life as a blueprint for mine. And I love her so dearly, but once our girl June was born and she came out screaming and ready to fuck shit up, I changed my tune.”
She shook her head with a smile on her face.
“I wanted to punch my best friend and her perfectly sleeping baby,” Fiona chuckled. “I wanted to punch the husband I was sure I adored for daring to sneeze after I finally got the baby down for a nap. Like who the fuck did he think he was, sneezing like some bachelor? Hold it in. I don’t care if you crack a rib.”
I barked out a half laugh at that. Although Kane did indeed close doors quietly, he’d also become quite a butterfingers suddenly. His phone, plates, knives and forks routinely clattered out of his hands and onto the hardwood floor.
He was always apologetic, ready to run to calm Mabel if he woke her, but it did make me want to strangle him, just a little.
“Anyway, marriage is supposed to be built to survive the first year. But it tests you. Granted, our marriage didn’t begin with love, it began with immigration fraud, but that’s a story for another day.” She waved her hand dismissively as my interest piqued.