Ethan pulled it on and posed.
“Diapers, bottles, laundry, night feedings,” he announced. “I’ve got it all.”
“I’m saving that speech to memory.”
He leaned down and kissed my forehead.
“Save it. I’ll prove it, my love.”
***
Then Tara, Timothy, and Tessa arrived.
The C-section left me moving as though every part of my body had been stitched too tightly. Even sitting up hurt. Laughing hurt. Coughing felt impossible.
Our first night home, all three babies started crying within minutes of one another.
I reached for Tara and gasped.
“Ethan, can you bring her to me?”
He opened one eye.
“I can’t lift her from here.”
He sighed, carried Tara over, and placed her in my arms.
Then he got back into bed.
“Timothy needs his bottle,” I whispered.
I stared at him.
“So are you.”
“I’ve got work tomorrow.”
I looked at the three bassinets beside our bed.
“And I’ve got three babies who can’t survive without us.”
He turned toward the wall.
On the third night, he entered the room carrying his pillow.
Tessa was against my shoulder. Timothy had milk running down his chin, and Tara was crying again.
“For how long?”
“Until they sleep through the night.”
“They’re newborns.”
“I need more than 40 minutes if I’m going to function here.”
“You don’t have meetings.”
I looked at our children.
“No. Just tiny human beings whose lives depend on me.”
“Why do you always have to make me feel guilty?”
“I thought guilt came after doing something wrong.”
His mouth tightened.
“I’m not arguing about this, Kyra.”
He left.
***
During the day, he counted every small thing he did.
“I changed two diapers,” he announced one afternoon.
I checked the care sheet taped beside the fridge.
“There have been 23.”
“I started writing things down because I can’t remember what hour it is.”
“You always make it sound like I’m doing nothing.”
I was washing bottles while rocking Timothy’s carrier with my foot.
“You held Tessa for six minutes.”
“I work all day.”
“So do I.”
My hands stopped in the soapy water.
“So are the babies.”
He walked away before I could say more.
Still, I covered for him.
When his mother called and asked if he was helping, I looked toward the guest room door.
“He’s tired from work,” I said.
“He’s trying.”
“Don’t overwhelm him,” she warned. “Men don’t always know what to do with newborns. He’s probably afraid he’ll drop one.”
I almost told her that women didn’t leave the hospital with secret instructions hidden in their bodies.
Ethan stepped into the hall after I ended the call. He reached for the guest room door.
“Try to keep them quiet tonight. I’ve got an early call.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
“I had surgery six weeks ago. I’m feeding three babies all night, and you’re asking me to keep them quiet for you.”
“I can’t lose my job.”
He opened the door.
“You’ll be fine.”
Then he closed it.
***
