Free Momfriends by Ariella Papa Page B

for the time in Abe.
    Claudia hands me a cup of tea. I take my tea with milk and sugar, but this has lemon and honey and it is delicious. I wrap my hands around it and let my face soak up the steam. My skin is glistening with a thin film of sweat and dirt already. This can’t make it any worse.
    Somehow, Kirsten expertly manages to cradle Abe in one hand and drink her tea. Claudia reads a few of Abe’s books to her kids between sips. Eventually, her son falls asleep on the floor and her daughter sits Indian style, going through the books and quietly organizing them.
    Abe miraculously falls asleep and Kirsten gently sets him down on the couch beside her. I start to tell her that he usually doesn’t sleep flat on his back, but she ignores me. And as if to spite me, he stays asleep.
    Kirsten talks about her first daughter and how she would only fall asleep if they bundled her up like a burrito, but her son needed to keep his hands in her hair to go down. It sounds as if she is a co-sleeper.
    Claudia is definitely not a co-sleeper. She says that her son slept well at the beginning and her daughter didn’t and then they switched.
    They are talking to each other, reminiscing, but I have a feeling that it is all for my benefit. I suspect they are still trying to talk me off a cliff. I can’t really see another situation where two women so seemingly diverse would be sharing such intimate memories.
    Occasionally they glance over at me or look down at my sleeping son. I expect that any minute they will scold me for yelling or being such a bad parent, but they don’t. They each say several times that sometimes babies want to be passed off to someone new. I drink my tea, listening to their voices. I don’t feel like adding anything to the conversation. I’m not sure I want to make nice with them—they have, after all, barged into my apartment and taken over. But I have to admit I am enjoying it. The sound of their voices, not the buzz of the TV, is soothing. My head bounces from side to side on my neck, like I am getting ready to doze. But I can’t sleep. I have guests. Though I am so tired. My eyes are heavy; I let them close and lean back against the love seat, my empty still warm teacup against my leg. I am just going to rest, just going to listen. . . .
    “Mama, mama,” a voice says. No adult has called me that since I was in the hospital in labor. The nurses called me that throughout the process because they weren’t sure of my name. Am I still in labor? Do I have to do it all again? Where is Abe?
    “Abe!” I wake with a start, look into my arms, thinking Abe will be there, afraid as usual that I have hurt or crushed him.
    “It’s okay,” Kirsten says, her green eyes blinking, her curly hair falling down her face, towards me. I want to grab it. I understand why it helped her son fall asleep. But where is my son?
    “Abe is fine,” she says. “He’s still asleep. I transferred him to his basinet. Looks like he’s finally given his mama a break.”
    I sit up. It is incredible. Not only is Abe sleeping flat, he has been transferred. These women worked miracles. I am a total failure.
    “I have to get back and see my daughter.”
    “How long was I out?”
    “I’m not sure. Maybe a little over two hours.”
    “Abe’s been asleep that long?” I am about to stand and check on him. “It’s been three hours since I fed him.”
    Kirsten smiles and rests her hand on my shoulder, gently easing me back against the love seat. “He must need his sleep more than milk. You both seem to need the rest”
    “Shouldn’t I wake him? He’s never gone this long. Ever. Doesn’t he need to eat?”
    “Hackerman’s rule,” Kirsten says. She laughs. “It’s the only rule we live by in our family, never wake a sleeping baby.”
    “Who is Hackerman?” Nobody had given me his book yet.
    “Janice Hackerman, my first midwife. She moved to Vermont after my daughter, Julissa was born and started her own brewery and alpaca