Lying under her now. Sitting, actually. A persistent ache in my shoulder. I can’t help but wish it were less gloomy out; perhaps then this uneasy and inexplicable dreariness that is part loneliness would lift. Maybe it is sunny. The shades are drawn. But I doubt it, based on the quality of the light that seeps in through the edges.
She woke at 9 am with coos and other such friendly noises, but then she was scarcely delighted to see me. The past few days her smiles have been hard to come by. Hungry? Sleepy? Bored?
She is soft. Much softer than he ever was. I never knew such softness in a body, except both times after I gave birth my belly felt this way. Not loose skin then. Just plain old fat. Her back is fat. I never knew back fat could be so charming.
Sometimes looking at her I see my cousin John. The eyes, the nose in profile. I mentioned this to my mother once and she snorted. I know better than to say anything to my dad. But John was good-looking if nothing else. That’s all I’m saying. She might be good-looking, too, based on the resemblance.
Last night I couldn’t sleep after the first feeding for thinking about nannies. Stupid. What finally did the trick was counting down from 700 by 7. The usual 300 by 3 wasn’t working. But by then it was almost time for her second feeding.
I dread the evening. Her cries make me miserable. I can tell Panini’s mother has little sympathy. She thinks we’re cruel. I’m not confident enough not to half-believe it myself, so of course then I’m bothered. I would like to crawl into some dark den and focus on her cries alone. A whole day of holding her doesn’t expiate the guilt.