25. Kendall #2
“Make yourselves at home,” Sylvia offers.
She stoops down and starts picking up a little bit of the mess, though it doesn’t really make much of a dent after she tosses a few things onto an emerald-green armchair.
She shoves that aside to make room for her to sit and faces us, a smile wide on her face through the chaos drifting around her.
I get a better look at her, noticing the swipe of lip gloss over her lips.
A little distraction from the darker shade cast under her eyes and a small stain of what looks like baby spit-up on her shoulder.
But it doesn’t seem to bother her one bit, this slightly haggard appearance.
In fact, she’s basking in it. She’s wearing it like a motherhood badge of honor.
James and I settle on the sofa, claiming a space with a little more room. He pats my thigh, a little check-in. When I turn toward him, he places a small kiss on my temple.
“How was the flight in?” Tommy asks. His voice is soft, cautious, a near whisper.
He peers into the bassinet, turning back to face us once he’s satisfied with what he sees: A baby sound asleep.
I watch him keep one eye on baby Katy while he rounds the back of Sylvia’s chair and settles on the armrest.
“It was good,” James answers, keeping the tone of his voice as equally heedful as Tommy’s. “Was a bitch getting our rental though.”
“Language,” Sylvia cautions through a hiss. “There’s a baby here now.”
James rolls his eyes. “Is it me, or has motherhood made her stricter?”
“She’s definitely stricter,” Tommy answers. “She won’t even let me eat cookies in bed.”
“You get crumbs everywhere,” she protests.
Tommy grins at her, and she shakes her head at him.
And it’s like no time has passed at all.
Like we’re back in San Diego, crowding around James and Tommy’s old apartment, in the thick of illicit make-out sessions in the living room and weekend dinner dates with our wine of the month picks.
“Anyway, we ordered Chinese,” Tommy announces. “We were going to cook—lasagna and garlic bread—but…”
I tilt my head and smile. “Chinese food sounds amazing.”
“And I swear, I thought Tommy was going to pass out when he cut the cord,” Sylvia tells us, her story growing choppy with the constant interruption of laughter. “I saw him go white as a ghost as soon as Katy’s head popped out.”
“Hey, it’s not like I’m a doctor,” he says defensively, “it was a lot of blood. And that cord is weird. It’s, like, really squishy and spongy.” He shudders.
While Sylvia laughs it off as having a stand-in midwife-slash-partner with a queasier stomach than most is just an unfortunate stroke of luck, I can’t help the wave of concern that rolls through me. Labor sounds like…labor. Hard and arduous and exertive.
“You were in labor for how long?”
“About sixteen hours,” she tells me. The matter-of-fact tone in her voice shows she’s told this story many, many times, and the expected sympathy it ensues is almost a broken record at this point. “Ended up with an episiotomy and a third-degree tear.”
“A what?” James asks, an egg roll gripped in his chopsticks.
“It’s when they grab a pair of scissors, and they—”
“Honey,” Sylvia interrupts her husband. He was miming the motion of scissors and who knows what else when Sylvia uses a calming hand to stop him. “I don’t think we need to traumatize them. They have yet to go through their own traumatic birth.”
James huffs an awkward laugh while I stay completely quiet.
Our own family planning direction isn’t something I really want to discuss.
Especially when I’m not even sure what that direction is.
I’m about to ask her about how her recovery has been—my attempt to change the subject before it veers down the wrong path—when we’re thankfully interrupted by wailing from the living room.
“Oh, someone wants some attention,” Sylvia announces, scooting back her seat from the dining table. Tommy wipes at his hands with a napkin and stands from his seat too. Ever the doting dad, he joins Sylvia as she returns to dinner. This time, with a fussy baby in her arms.
“I’ll get her bottle ready,” Tommy tells her quickly before shuffling into the kitchen.
Baby Katy continues her gripe, her tight fists punching into the air in frustration.
“I swear, she eats like we’re going to run out,” Sylvia tells us, finding amusement in her daughter’s large appetite.
She bounces the baby against her chest, doing little to calm her.
Only when Tommy returns with a bottle in his hand and Sylvia pops it into her trembling mouth does she finally quiet. “Do you guys want more egg rolls?”
“I’m good,” I tell her, poking my chopsticks at a lone shrimp covered in gooey garlicky sauce. She adjusts the bottle in her hand, and Katy’s suckling grows louder. “How did the interview go?”
She huffs a stifled groan. “It was fine.” Sylvia had told me about a position at the local school district, a sub job which would be the perfect way to ease into work while juggling a baby who has yet to sleep through the night, and her interview was this past week.
“Just fine?”
“It’s just a sub position,” she reminds me, suppressing an eye roll. “There isn’t a long-term position or anything, and the principal seemed fine, but…I don’t know. I just don’t think I’m ready to go back to work.”
“Then don’t go back to work,” Tommy cuts in, slurping a noodle at the same time. By the look she gives him, I can tell this is a conversation they’ve had before.
“What am I going to do? Sit at home all day?”
“You’d be with Katy,” Tommy insists.
“It would be part-time anyway,” she says with a dismissive shake of her head. “And I need to get out there and interact with other human beings—with adults—or I’ll go crazy.”
“Or you can join, like, a mom group,” James suggests.
“What do you know about mom groups?” I ask him, an accusatory brow lifted in his direction
“Teeny joined one after she had Sadie,” he explains. “She liked it. Said it kept her busy and gave her a place to go every day during her long maternity leave.”
I eye him with a curious smile, and he winks at me. “I know things too,” he whispers.
“I’ve heard horror stories about those mom groups,” Sylvia tells us. “Like, Mean Girls level drama. I don’t need that shit.”
James pokes his chopsticks in Sylvia’s direction. “Language. You have a baby in the room.”
Tommy cackles, and I join him while Sylvia rolls her eyes through a smile she can’t seem to resist.
Katy’s bottle is now empty, and Sylvia shifts her from a supine position to her tummy laid over her chest. She starts patting at Katy’s back and an adorable little belch has us smiling fondly. I catch Sylvia eyeing her food as it grows cold right in front of her.
“I can take her,” I offer, and before she can refuse, I say, “Let me just go wash my hands.”
When I return, Sylvia is balancing her chopsticks between her fingers while attempting to keep them away from Katy’s reach.
“Here. Give her to me,” I offer with outstretched hands.
“You need to finish your food.”
“I’m done,” I insist. “You need to finish before your food gets cold…er.”
She smiles, gratitude evident in her sigh of relief. “Are you sure?”
I nod, and we start a gingerly played game of hot potato.
Next thing I know, Katy’s in my arms, her wide eyes taking in her surroundings, and James’s attention has shifted from his own dinner to me.
Me with a baby in my arms. I feel his hand wrap around the back of my chair, his fingers occasionally brushing at the nape of my neck.
He tugs at the blanket so he can get a better look at her round face.
“Hi there,” he whispers.
She responds with the cutest little sneeze, and we both laugh.
We don’t say anything, but when we look at each other, I can see how bittersweet this moment is.
“You’re a natural.”
I smile at Sylvia with a suddenly intrinsic bounce in my hold.
Something that feels intuitive. Maybe because I’ve seen mothers—in real life and on TV and movies—do a similar little up and down bobbing motion to soothe their babies.
Or maybe it’s the simple act of holding a newborn brings this action out of me.
Like ducking when there’s a loud noise or flinching when touching something hot.
“A natural,” I whisper to James, a gloating grin on my face.
We wash away the cocktail of mixed emotions, replacing it with something less tangy and more saccharine. Just as Katy’s lids fall heavy, and she drifts off right in my arms.