It was a little past eight in the evening. “Time for bed, Peanut,” I whispered as I maneuvered out of the rocking chair. The whole of my world now fit into my hands. It was torturous, made bearable only by the thought that the small infant I held was mine. Exhaustion was relentless, and no one had been joking when they’d told me that raising a baby would be tiring.īut it wasn’t just tiring. Giuliana let out a toot and a soft sigh, and I knew it was past time to put her in the crib. But two years can feel like a lifetime, long enough for two people who love each other to grow apart, and it only took one last call-a positive pregnancy with an egg that had my sperm-for Kyle to be out the door. I’d hoped the grueling experience, that constant pain and stress, would bring Kyle and I closer. The expensive and heartbreaking rounds of in vitro with a surrogate had lasted two years, and left us feeling fragile and desperate. My ex-husband, Kyle, and I had planned on raising a baby together when we’d decided to become fathers six years into our marriage. Rocking Giuliana helped me forget that I was alone in this when there were supposed to be two of us. That had caused a lurch in my heart and a spike of adrenaline that hadn’t faded for hours, even though she would have been entirely fine she couldn’t even roll over yet. I could forget about how I’d left her on the couch while I ran to get disinfectant, the thought that she might roll off not even crossing my mind until it did. When rocking her, I could forget about the poo that had exploded from her diaper earlier, staining the beige couch in a Cheeto-orange smear. The gentle rise and fall of her chest and the heat of her pressed against me was so wondrous that for a moment, I could almost believe I was good at this. The soft smell of Giuliana’s hair sent waves of comfort through me, soothing me while the white noise machine hummed in the corner. It was the only time in the entire day I didn’t question if I’d made the right choice to be a single father. It didn’t matter that she’d already fallen asleep a half-hour before-the rocking was just for me. Finally, I had rocked Giuliana in the dark. It was far easier to put a clean diaper on a milk-drunk baby than try to do it before, when she was hungry and raging.Īfter the diaper came her footie pajamas, and the whole time I dressed her, I marveled at how small the jammies were, like a doll’s outfit. That was a trick my brother, Mason, had taught me. When her eyes had finally fluttered shut, her thick dark eyelashes dusting her rosy cheeks, I’d managed to change her diaper without any fuss. I’d fed my almost month-old daughter, Giuliana, her last bottle for the day.

All of the proper nighttime rituals had finally been completed, and now I could almost breathe.

Messy Ink by Ali Lyda