Chapter 8: The Night He Didn't Wake
The doctor's log was on our kitchen counter next to the bottle warmer. It was just a printed sheet with empty boxes, time, temperature, feeding, notes. I'd taped it to a clipboard so it wouldn't curl.
At nine I laid the baby down on the changing pad in our bedroom. Our apartment nursery was really just the corner of our bedroom with a crib we'd found secondhand and repainted. The walls were thin enough I could hear the neighbor's TV.
I wrote 9:03 p.m. I slipped the thermometer under his arm and waited for the beep. 99.4. Still low. He fussed when I lifted his little blue outfit to check his chest, his face scrunching red before he settled.
Ethan was already in bed, propped against the headboard on his phone. He glanced over.
"How is he?" he asked.
"99.4," I said. I showed him the clipboard. "Fussy but that's normal. She said to just keep logging."
He nodded. "Good. That's good."
He set his phone down. He didn't ask to do it. I told myself it was okay, that I was already standing there, that it was easier if I just did it. I initialed the box and set the alarm on my phone for midnight.
He was asleep by ten. I could tell by his breathing, slow and even. I stayed up folding a tiny load of laundry on the bed beside him, careful not to wake either of them. The baby made those newborn sighs in his sleep every few minutes.
At midnight my alarm vibrated on the nightstand. It was a soft chime I'd picked so it wouldn't jolt the baby. Ethan didn't move.
I sat up and lifted the baby out of the bassinet. He was warm and squirmy, rooting against my shirt. I changed him first, then took his temp. 99.2.
I wrote it down. 12:07 a.m. 99.2, fussy before feeding, settled after.
Ethan was on his side now, his mouth slightly open, one arm over his eyes to block the light from the hallway. The alarm had stopped and he hadn't even twitched.
I fed the baby in the glider we had squeezed next to the dresser. The chair creaked every time I rocked. I watched Ethan's chest rise and fall. He didn't wake when the baby cried out mid-feed and then latched again.
When I put the baby back down at 12:45, I stared at the log. Two entries, both in my handwriting. I thought about the night before at Diane's, how she'd said she could handle nights better in that kitchen where she stood in the doorway watching us.
I set the alarm for three.
At 3:02 the chime went off again. The baby was already stirring, making that thin whimper that turns into a cry if you don't move fast.
I didn't reach for him right away. I reached for Ethan's shoulder instead.
"Ethan," I whispered. I shook him lightly. "Ethan, it's your turn."
He made a noise and rolled away from me.
"Ethan," I said a little louder. The baby's whimper got stronger.
He blinked awake, his eyes half closed. He pushed himself up on one elbow and looked at me, then at the bassinet.
"What time is it?" he mumbled.
"Three. You said you'd take the three a.m. one."
He rubbed his face with both hands. He didn't get up.
"I've got work at seven," he said, his voice thick with sleep. "I have that presentation. Diane said she'd do nights better anyway, she has that whole setup. We should have just stayed."
The words hung there. The baby started to cry in earnest now, a sharp, hungry cry that filled our small room.
I stared at him. He was looking past me at the crib, not at me. Waiting for me to do what I always did.
"Are you going to get him?" he asked quietly.
I didn't answer right away. I felt that quiet resentment settle in my chest, not hot, just heavy. Cold. I had thought choosing the apartment meant he'd chosen us. That walking out of Diane's house together meant he would actually be here. But geography hadn't changed anything. He was in the same bed and still somewhere else.
I stood up. My back ached from hunching over all day. I picked up the baby and his crying softened against my shoulder. I took his temperature with one hand while I bounced him. 99.1.
I didn't ask Ethan again.
I went to the counter and wrote it down. 3:14 a.m. 99.1, feeding. Initials: M.
Behind me, Ethan had already lain back down. I heard his breathing even out again within minutes while I was still rocking, while I was still awake.
I looked down at the log. Three rows, all my handwriting. The baby was stable. He was okay. But the proof of who had stayed awake was right there in ink, and Ethan hadn't even seen it.
By six the light was coming gray through our blinds. The baby was finally in a deep sleep after the five a.m. feeding that I'd also done alone. Ethan's alarm went off at 6:30. He sat up and stretched like he'd slept all night, which he had.
He saw me in the glider, still holding the baby, the clipboard on my lap.
"You were up a lot," he said.
I nodded. I didn't have the energy to make it sound gentle.
He stood and pulled on his work shirt, the same white button-down from the kitchen, sleeves now pushed up while he buttoned it. He looked at the log on the counter and then at me.
May you like
"Thanks for handling it," he said.
I realized then that he thought handling it was my job, that my being tired was just how it was supposed to be. And that broke something more than if he'd yelled. I held the baby tighter and said nothing.
