Page 4 of Wylder Ranch
It’s not hard to imagine what she’d say in response. She’d tell me I was being ridiculous, that Everly is a baby, and babies are unpredictable, but I’ll get there. We just need to know each other a little better.
It’s exactly what Saylor’s been saying to me every time I’ve felt overwhelmed with the responsibility I’ve taken on. That I’ve already proved over and over I’m more than capable of rising to the challenge of becoming a mom, to which I always reply that saving my family’s ranch from bankruptcy is nothing compared to raising a human.
I’m not quick enough to swipe away the tear beforeit falls on Everly’s head, but she doesn’t notice. Her little eyelids flicker as she greedily sucks down as much milk as her tiny body will let her.
Why can’t it always be like this?
Pushing out the darker thoughts that threaten to take hold, I begin my daily ritual of focusing on the positives and the new things I’ve learned about my daughter.
For instance, the little humming noise she’s making is what happens right before she falls asleep. If I’m lucky, I might get an hour myself until she wakes up again, or maybe this time it’ll be different because her body clock is as messed up as mine is.
The other thing I’ve learned is that sleep becomes a distant memory, and survival mode is the new norm.
It’s one of the reasons I’m currently standing in this floral-covered room, in a bed and breakfast, in the middle of a quaint town in the English countryside. Probably not where I would have chosen to make my first trip outside the United States, yet here I am existing on no sleep and even less confidence that what I’m doing is the right thing.
But turning back isn’t an option.
Carefully, I rearrange the pillows on the queen bed so that I can lay Everly in the middle of them and change her diaper. Thanks to Saylor, I have swaddling down to an art. I don’t know if it works, but she stays milk drunk for long enough that she doesn’t stir, and I’ll do anything to buy me a couple of hours of quiet time.
Unlike her mother, Everly doesn’t seem to thrive on sleep. In fact, beyond her rosy cheeks and button nose, I can’t find any similarities between us at all. My daughter’s thick shock of chocolate-brown hair and piercing blue eyes have come straight from her father, along with, I’m assuming, her stubbornness.
But when she does finally sleep, watching her has become one of my favorite things in the whole world.
I’ve lost countless hours transfixed by the slow rise and fall of her chest, the way her deep breaths evolve into soft snores, and I become so overwhelmed with love for this tiny creature that I inevitably start crying again.
To be honest, it’s hard to remember a time when I didn’t cry. My nerves are shot, and I’m on a runaway train of emotions, but when I look at Everly, the noise is silenced.
This time, the smell of milk and the pull of being clean tears me away from her, and less than ten minutes later, I’m sinking into a hot, soapy bath. And it seems I can’t even keep my emotions zipped up for this because the urge to cry stings my eyes.
And then my phone beeps with a message.
SAYLOR: How’re you doing? How’s my goddaughter?
HAVEN: Asleep.
SAYLOR: Have you seen him yet? What’s the place like?
HAVEN: No. I’ve literally got to my room and crashed. I haven’t seen anything or anyone except the porter.
SAYLOR: Get some sleep, and tomorrow is a new day. It’ll all be okay, Havey. I promise.
I begin typing a message,only to delete it. There’s nothing I can respond with because I don’t know whetherit’s all going to be okay. I shut my phone off instead, and before I fall asleep in the bath, I climb out and dry myself.
My last thought as my head hits the pillow is that I’m here for my daughter. Everything I’m doing is for her.
I lost my parents too young, and I don’t want to steal her chance to have both of hers.
The multitudeof colors on the wall momentarily blinds me when I open my eyes. The sunlight breaking through the drapes lights up the room enough that I’m much more appreciative of the summer meadow that we’re sleeping in than I was yesterday.
And it’s stopped raining.
I think I managed a solid five hours, which is the most I’ve gotten in one stretch since Everly was born. It also means Everly slept through for that long too, and turning to her, I find she’s staring up at the flowers on the wall, quiet and curious.
It’s the first time she hasn’t woken me up crying, which raises a wave of panic. Is something wrong with her?
Instead, I brave getting out of bed without disturbing her and manage to summon calm through a long stretch of my body, relishing in the peace as I do. Everything else is done at hyper-speed—peeing and brushing my teeth as quickly as possible so I can get through it before Everly begins to grumble.
But she doesn’t.
