Some are of Kate and me, but most of the captured images are of a dark-haired two-year-old, with brown, soulful eyes and a devilish smile.
Cut to the bedroom. Two bodies writhe on the bed, partially covered by rumpled silk sheets; my hips rotate in long, slow circles. I think the missionary position has gotten a bad rap. It’s not boring. It allows the guy to take control—set the pace. To reach all those secret spots that make women moan and dig their fingernails into our shoulder blades.
Kind of like Kate is doing right now.
My head dips and I grasp one perky nipple with my lips, suctioning hard and flicking with my tongue. Kate arches her back. Her chin rises and her mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Her thighs squeeze harder, her * clenches tighter.
Even with the birth of a child on its résumé, Kate’s cooch is just as snug and feels just as amazing as it did that first time. God bless you, Dr. Kegel.
My hips speed up and change their trajectory, thrusting to and fro in hard, quick strokes. When I know she can’t take it anymore, I cover her mouth with mine, muffling her blissful cry. As much as I crave the sound of Kate’s voice, these days it’s all about staying quiet. Covert.
Why? you ask.
Let’s pause here a minute and I’ll explain.
It’s our golden rule. Our first commandment: Don’t wake the fucking baby.
I’ll repeat that in case you missed it:
DON’T WAKE THE FUCKING BABY.
Like . . . ever.
Still don’t get it? Must not have kids then. See, children are beautiful. Precious. Angelic. Particularly when they’re asleep. If they’re disturbed mid-sleep-cycle, however? They’re monsters. Irritable, angry little beasts who bear a striking resemblance to gremlins fed after midnight.
And the cold truth is, even when they’re well rested, babies are pretty frigging selfish. Self-centered and demanding. They don’t care what you were doing before they needed you, or—more important—whom you were trying to do. They only care about themselves. They’re hungry. They’re wet. They want you to pick them up because the view from the crib has gotten old.
For all you happy couples out there awaiting the arrival of your own darling little cockblocker? I’m gonna tell you how it really is—not the utopian bullshit they feed you in those What to Expect books.
Here it goes: In the days after they’re born, when you’re still in the hospital, all infants do is sleep. I think the numbers are like twenty-three out of a twenty-four-hour day. I think they’re slipping something into those bottles in the nursery.
Anyway, after a day or two, if all goes well, the hospital sends you home. And that’s when the baby decides that it’s slept enough. And finds something else to do to pass the time.
Did you know an infant’s cry is twenty decibels higher than a train whistle? I shit you not. Look it up if you don’t believe me.
By day three, I was convinced something was wrong with James. Maybe he had a gastrointestinal disorder. Maybe he was allergic to the wallpaper.
Maybe he just didn’t fucking like us.
Whatever the reason, he was not a happy camper. And he was all too eager to let us know it. In the morning. In the afternoon. And—his favorite—all through the night.
Once in a while, just to screw with us, he’d mix it up and pass out for a while. But if he was awake? Yep—he was bawling. And I’m not talking about lip-quivering whimpers, either. Hell no. I’m talking lung-expanding, arm-and-leg-kicking, bansheelike screeching.
Shaken baby syndrome? I totally get that now.
Not that we were gonna go nuclear on his ass, but honestly? It wasn’t fun.
My mother came over a lot, and at first I was relieved. I figured she’d done this twice before, she’d know how to fix him. Moms always make everything better.
Only . . . she didn’t.
All she did was smile in that infuriatingly calm way while she bounced our squawking newborn on her shoulder. Then she’d tell us it was normal. That all babies cried. That Kate and I just had to figure out our own way of doing things.
I’d never before had the urge to strangle my mother. I’d never understood psychos like the Menendez brothers or Jim Gordon. But in those dark days when sleep—and blow jobs—were a distant memory, I’m sorry to say matricide was looking pretty damn attractive.
Because I was sure my mother knew the secrets of a happy baby—that she held the Keys to the Kingdom in her grasp. But for some evil, vengeful reason, she just wasn’t handing them the fuck over. And sleep deprivation can drive you crazy. Even the most absurd ideas suddenly look like viable options.
One time, it was around four in the morning and I . . .
Actually, it might be better if I just show you, so you can get the full effect. Yes, it’s a flashback within a flashback—but you’re smart, you can handle it. I’ll speak slowly, just in case:
James, five days old: