Page 142 of Things We Burn

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.

Kane had been eating with one hand, scribbling in his notebook with the other.

Essentially, it was the baby realizing that they were out of the mother’s womb and in the big, loud, cold and intimidating world. The first night they were, apparently, exhausted from the journey through the birth canal—not Mabel, though—and same with the following day.

Mabel had been slumbering peacefully in Maisie’s arms as she explained it, my sister standing and rocking like an expert, sure of each one of her movements, of the way she held her.

I hadn’t seen my sister in this light before. Hadn’t allowed myself too. In my mind, she was the young mother, the free spirit who I struggled to connect to.

I’d brushed off whatever ‘alternative’ knowledge she’d muttered about, barely listening. I hadn’t taken her seriously.

That was my mistake and cross to bear. Same with my mother.

Two women I’d shut out of my life who came running without resentment or blame when I needed them.

I’d ruminated over that the entire second night because I was awake for every moment of it.

Mabel seemed to be glued to my boob. Every time she fell asleep there and I’d thought it was safe to put her in the bedside bassinet—I hadn’t ever decided on one; Kane had taken all of my meticulously constructed spreadsheets and made decisions on all the remaining baby items in about fifteen minutes—her eyes popped open, and she wailed until I put her back on my boob.

My body was still riding on adrenaline. I knew logically that I was exhausted, but I didn’t feel it.

At first, Kane stayed up with me, rubbing my back, getting up to change Mabel when it was clear she needed it, thumbing through his notebook plus the baby books on his side of the table in search of things he could do to help.

“Go to sleep,” I whispered to him as I watched the fatigue roll over him in waves, his bloodshot eyes drooping.

Those drooping eyes widened. “Absolutely fucking not,” he whispered, looking at me and placing his large hand on Mabel’s tiny head. The head that had come out of my vagina. Still insane to think about. But not that insane considering the aforementioned vagina was throbbing with pain tocommunicate that yes, a head the size of a small basketball had come out of there.

“You need sleep,” I told him.

“So do you,” he countered. “You sleep, I’ll stay up to watch over you.”

A sweet offer. A genuine one. Despite his lethargy, he would stay up to watch us so I could get rest.

“I can’t,” I told him truthfully, nodding down to my breast. “This isn’t exactly the most comfortable thing in the world, and I’m wired. My body is producing hormones in order for me to deal with this. Yours isn’t. You need sleep.”

His brows furrowed. “You need help.”

I shook my head. “You can’t help me; your nipples are useless. Therefore, sleep. There is no point in both of us being exhausted. This parenting thing is a marathon, not a sprint. You need your energy.” I held my finger up to pause him, holding my breast as Mabel moved slightly.

We were both silent, watching her in the low glow of the nightlight I’d bought that doubled as a sound machine.

I’d learned that white noise replicated the sound of the womb. For me, it just grated against my senses.

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