Page 26 of Keeping the Score

I don’t even know why I said that. Except this feels easier with someone else. “What if she wakes up and I don’t hear her?”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, you’ll hear her.”

“I might not.”

“I have work to do.” She blows out a breath. “But fine. Go ahead, have your nap.” She waves her hands at me. “But just know, I’m not much help when it comes to babies. I know nothing.”

“That’s about the same as me, eight hours ago. And the knowledge I’ve acquired since then is minimal.” I close my eyes, trying to relax my tight muscles.

This is so fucked up.

I do wake up when Matilda cries. The sound comes through the baby monitor. I blink my eyes and try to pull myself out of the depths of sleep.

“Ford.”

“What?”

“She’s awake.”

“I know. I hear her.” I push myself up to sitting and rub my face. “What time is it? How long did we sleep?”

“Nearly two hours.”

“Oh, man. I needed that.” I head into the bedroom to pick up the crying baby, then take her over to the bed. I have a pad that I lay her on to change the diaper. She stops crying, thank fuck, as I fumble around and change her, waving her little arms and watching me with eyes that are weirdly discerning. I feel judged.And found lacking. “Okay, princess, are you hungry?” I lift her up again and take her to the kitchen.

“Can I help?” Andi asks. “Although I don’t know how to make a bottle.”

“Do you want to hold her?”

“No! Just tell me what to do.”

“Willa wrote down the instructions for making a bottle.” I reach for them. “She brought this machine.”

“Fancy,” Andi says. “It’s like a Keurig for baby bottles.”

I snort-laugh.

Moments later, Andi hands me the bottle. “Here you go.”

I pop the nipple into Matilda’s mouth and she immediately starts sucking. “You were starving, weren’t you?” I say to her. “Attagirl.” I carry her back to the living room so I can sit.

“You’ve got this,” Andi says.

“I feel like an idiot.” I’m holding the baby and the bottle awkwardly. Matilda gazes up at me. “She knows I don’t have a clue what I’m doing.”

Andi laughs. “Now that she’s not crying, she does seem very… wise.”

“Right? Like, if she could talk she’d be bossing me around.”

“Just wait.”

I look up and catch her smile.

Jesus. One day Matilda will be talking. And walking. And then she’ll be graduating from high school. My mind boggles. I seriously can’t deal with this.

I have a daughter.

“I missed my meditation session this afternoon,” I complain.

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