She woke up on the floor by the couch, wrapped in a bath towel. Through the lingering effects of the night before, she heard a baby's cry ... it still took a minute for her to process the meaning of it, that her five week old baby was hungry. She set out on bare, unsteady feet to find him. Even in the small apartment, it took a few minutes to hone in on the thin wail. She sank to the floor by the bed and fished out from under it the smelly and damp little creature that was her son. His eyes were puffy from crying and she knew if she kept looking at them, at him, she would begin to cry. She looked away. He was sick, probably from spending another night stuffed under the only stable piece of furniture in his world ... a place his mother thought he would be out of the way from the harsh feet of last night's party. She fumbled with his skinny arms and legs until his head pressed against her breast. She discovered he would not nurse, his wailing shook his whole body, she swore quietly and wove her way past piles of debris to the bathroom ... broken bottles, old magazines, a twisted crack pipe still resting in the outstretched hand of one of
LT's friends, the one who was stabbed the year before. Past all of this she carried the writhing little figure. In the bathroom, she brushed aside piles of dirty clothes and laid him on the linoleum to change his diaper. She briefly tried to recall when she had last changed him but could not. His cries grew stronger as she attempted to wipe him off with a paper towel from the role that lay next to the toilet. Dried feces and rash worked against her until she could no longer bear his screaming. She cradled the naked little form against her own naked body, shushing him. It was too late ... LT, a liquor bottle in his hand, flung the bathroom door open with a bang that made her jump. "Shut that little fucker up" each word was calmly separated in a way that underscored their menace. He peed in the toilet that was missing a lid and seat and limped back to the bed swearing as he went. She let out a breath, relieved he had not bothered to kick at them on his way by. She held her baby as closely as she could, letting his screams numb her to her surroundings. Still, she wondered how she had come to be there, clinging to the only precious thing in her world on a bathroom floor at 5am.
A world away, I awake at the same time. Nestled safely between her snoring father and me, Harriette cries, suffering from a stomach bug. I listen for a moment, hoping she will fall back asleep, but she does not. I begrudgingly turn on the light on my nightstand and knock an empty formula bottle onto the floor in the process. "oh drat" I hiss and turn toward my baby. She is hot to the touch and I administer a dose of baby Tylenol from a dropper into her expectant mouth. I carry her to my bathroom and lay her carefully on the throw rug. On it, I can see the yellow stains of stomach bug events from earlier in the night. I apply a fresh diaper and toss the old one in the trash. I use wipes to wash away all traces of the "stinging poo", relieved to see it hadn't sat long enough to cause a rash. As I snap up her baby suit, she throws up for the fourth time in as many hours. Over her crying, I reassure her "it's ok, little baby ... you're fine ... mommy will clean it up" My shushing calms but doesn't silence her and I turn my attention to removing our clothes and running a bath. I step into the warm water and wonder if there is anything warm water can't fix. Harriette is instantly quiet, we are both relieved to be back in our beloved tub. I turn the jets on and they stir the water with a steady hum that drowns out my own humming. I hum to her anyway, figuring she can hear something of it as she lays with her head against my chest. I stare down at her little baby body as she sleeps and try to decide when or if I should call the pediatrician in the morning. I decide to keep her home all day with Carolina and call later in the day if she does not improve. My mind is anxious and I pray silently for her recovery, feeling her steady breathing.
I AM GRATEFUL that God has sent me this baby and the ability and resources to properly care for her. That is all.
