Chapter 5: Week Three

You are getting better at the bottles. The formula is the right temperature on the first try. Your hands do not shake anymore when you test it on your wrist.

Claire is three weeks old. She weighs eight pounds. You know this because you weigh yourself holding her and then without her and do the math. Amanda says there are baby scales but you like your method better.

It is four AM. This is your time now. The apartment is quiet except for the sound of Claire eating. Outside the window Park Slope is dark and you have stopped wondering where the taxis are going.

Amanda is asleep. She is back at work three days a week and you are alone with Claire the other four. You have developed a routine. Swing, walk, feed, change, repeat. You are no longer terrified every moment. Only most moments.

Claire finishes the bottle. You burp her. She does not spit up. This feels like a miracle.

You carry her to the window and look out at Seventh Avenue. The streetlights make everything orange and specific. You can see the bodega where you buy diapers. You can see the coffee shop where people younger than you work on projects they believe will matter.

Your daughter makes a sound. Not crying. Something between a sigh and a question.

Hey kid, you say.

She looks at you. Her eyes are dark like Amanda's. You wonder what she sees when she looks at you. Probably someone large and unreliable who occasionally provides food.

You are not wrong, you tell her.

She yawns. You carry her to the bassinet and put her down. She fusses for a moment and then settles. You watch her breathing. In and out. The most important thing that has ever happened in this apartment.

Your laptop is on the kitchen table. You open it. The article about bookstores is due tomorrow. You have written three paragraphs in three weeks. Your editor has stopped sending gentle emails.

You look at what you have written. It is not good. It is the kind of writing someone does when they are trying to remember how to write.

You delete it all.

You start over.

Three weeks ago I became someone's father. I have not slept more than four hours at a stretch since then. I have learned to make bottles in the dark. I have learned that you can love something so much it feels like drowning.

This is not about bookstores.

You write for forty minutes. It is not the article your editor wanted. It is probably not publishable. You do not care.

Claire starts crying. You save the document and go to her.

At six Amanda wakes up. She finds you in the rocking chair with Claire asleep on your chest. You have been sitting like this for an hour. Your arm is numb but you have not moved.

Good morning, Amanda whispers.

Morning, you say.

She makes coffee. She brings you a cup. You drink it one-handed while Claire sleeps on.

You look happy, Amanda says.

You think about this. You are exhausted. You smell like spit-up. Your career is probably over. You have not had a conversation with another adult that did not involve diaper inventory in three weeks.

I think I am, you say.

Amanda kisses your forehead. She takes Claire from your arms so you can move. The absence is immediate and familiar. You flex your fingers and blood returns to your hand.

What are you working on, Amanda asks. She nods at the laptop.

Something new, you say.

She smiles. She knows what this means.

At eight you walk to the bodega. The same man is behind the counter. He is not watching soccer today. He is reading a newspaper in a language you do not recognize.

Good morning, he says.

Morning, you say.

You buy diapers. You buy coffee. You buy a can of Stella Artois even though you will probably not drink it.

At the counter the man rings you up. He sees the beer and nods.

Special occasion, he asks.

No, you say. Just seemed like the right time.

He gives you your change. You walk back to the apartment through the October morning. The coffee shop is not open yet. The people with laptops and projects are still asleep.

You climb the stairs to the third floor. You can hear Claire crying before you open the door. You smile. You know what that sound means and you know what to do about it.

Inside Amanda is changing a diaper and singing something you do not recognize. She sees you with the beer and laughs.

Really, she asks.

Really, you say.

You put the beer in the refrigerator. You kiss Amanda. You pick up Claire who stops crying and looks at you with her dark serious eyes.

Outside the window the sun is coming up over Park Slope. The brownstones glow. The street is empty. In three hours you will need to make another bottle. In six hours you will walk to the bodega again. In twelve hours it will be four AM and you will be here in this apartment doing this all over again.

You are someone's father now. The knowledge still sits in your chest like something broken.

But also like something built.

Something that works.