Twelve weeks

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I’m awake again. My husband is saying to the squirming baby between us: “come on buddy, you’ve been nursing all morning.” It’s true, I realize, remembering like a forgotten dream the last several hours of half-awake contortions, baby talk, and soggy nipples. My entire body feels sucked dry this morning, like every morning, despite the many quart jars of water I down all day. My son is spitting out the pacifier and breathily mouthing whatever he can put his face on: my cheek, my knuckle, my shoulder, my clothed chest, my hip when I sit up in bed.

When I wake for the fourth or fifth time, my husband is dressed and about to leave for work. He is handsome in a button down shirt, grey hair brushed back from his face. I think: they don’t deserve him. I am greedy, and I want him here with us. Someone has to make money though. Today, I am grateful that it’s not me.

My baby is twelve weeks old today.

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