He’s crying, i’m trying to fill out a report and he’s crying for some reason. He’s been fed, he has a clean nappy, i’m giving him cuddles and bouncing him. I’m trying so hard to focus on what i’m writing but keep making typos and loosing track of where i am in in a sentence.
Without looking i reach for the rattle in front of me, i shake it and it grabs his attention, for a moment he is quiet. For a moment i can think and breathe.
Then he’s crying again, i shake the rattle again, it doesn’t work this time, i’m trying to tune him out without fully dissociating so i can fill out this damn report, but the fog is rapidly closing in. He’s still crying, i shake the rattle continuously hoping it will work. He cries harder, i shake the rattle harder. The more he cries the more aggressive i get with the rattle. I just need to get this done.
All of a sudden he shouts, loud and frustrated, it sounds feral, it makes me instantly pause. It’s a sound i’m much too familiar with, i recognise my own anger in him, and it worries me. I stop shaking the rattle and he swats it out of my hand. Fuck. I look at him, shock and guilt followed by a suffocating numbness. What am I doing?
He’s not crying any more, just frustratedly trying to wriggle free from me. I put him down on his mat on the floor, and he instantly begins to cry again. What does he want? I don’t understand!
I kind of just sit there, watching him fuss about, i know i need to do something but i don’t know what, i can’t move. I’m stuck just watching him like that, feeling utterly helpless. I don’t know for how long.
“What’s his problem?” I snap out of my daze and look up. He’s finally finished his shower.
“I don’t know, he’s been fussing ever since you left”.
“Do you want me to make him a bottle?”
“No. I need you to take him. Please, please get him away from me.”
He frowns and picks up our son, still wet from the shower, steam wafting off his skin, long hair slicked back. He still looks like a sex god, despite gaining some weight around his hips and middle, and once upon a time such a sight would have had me mad with lust. But now i feel nothing. Maybe slightly relieved, now that he was holding the baby.
When was the last time i showered? Or even brushed my hair?
He’s stopped crying now, and i stare at him, completely content in his father’s arms, chewing away at his hand. I guess he must be teething, he really shouldn’t be yet, but he’s ahead in all his other milestones so why the heck not.
I get up without a word, and i feel their eyes tracking me as i leave for the kitchen. I don’t know why i’m here. I stare at the sink, used bottles and breastpumps sitting on the side. I want to smash my skull into the kitchen cupboard, repeatedly. It’s at perfect eye level. Maybe if i hit my head hard enough it might clear up a bit and actually start working.
Instead, i stand there, completely motionless. What is it i was trying to do again? What am i doing here? I splash my face with some cold water from the tap. Arms wrap around me from behind and i fight off the urge to flinch. A warm damp chest presses against my rigid back, I let it happen.
“He was just tired. I’ve got him asleep on the couch.”
I sigh. Of course. I should’ve known.
“You should get some rest”, he tells me quietly. I shrug him off, there are things I need to do. Things i’ll probably not end up getting to do, because of the baby, or because I'll get stuck staring at an empty corner of the room for a few hours again. But at least the intention to get something done is there, I suppose.
He’ll get home later this afternoon and realise, once again, that I haven't really accomplished anything at all. He’ll pretend to understand, pretend not to be disappointed that i’ve not got anything planned for dinner, and he’ll make himself some 2 minute noodles and hop on the game for the rest of the night.
“I need to pump”, i reply. I start mindlessly rinsing the pump i used earlier that morning, before either of them had even woken up. I feel him shift in place behind me.
“Can you make sure to eat something at least”, he pleads with me quietly. I nod, not looking back at him.
It hurts me probably just as much as it hurts him, and I wonder, is this how things are doomed to be for the rest of our lives? I also know it’s my fault.
I don’t know how to fix it.
