witching hour

I stand beneath the awning on my front steps, swaying the baby back and forth as she lets out a series of disgruntled cries. A thick rain slams itself onto our street, panging against the cars parked out front. There is a tree to my right which lost a branch to last winter’s worst storm; its green and yellow leaves twirl in the breeze, pleased that the weight of snow is withheld for now and this downpour is all she has to contend with.

I came out here in the hopes that a change of scenery would distract the baby from her nightly meltdown. We can only be out here for a minute, but I try to gulp as much fresh air as I can and let it fill my lungs, the earthy atmosphere a relief to my nostrils. I close my eyes and steady my breathing before returning to inside.

These hours contain months; these months go by in seconds. Everything has depth. A mirror is held up to my biggest weaknesses: I am fatally impatient, not as good with feelings as I’d like to believe, not as comfortable with discomfort as I pretend to be. I am a student being taught by my children. I am shown what it’s like to be a canvas for joy when Frannie, almost three, marches around and proclaims ‘Tend this is a coffee! ‘Tend this is a swingset!’ and then my favorite: I do something magical as she waves around her magic wand. Her small, raspy voice holds a universe of possibilities, all of which please her. She smiles at me through a chocolate milk mustache, a before-dinner bribe. I want to stay inside this moment with her, but the baby wants to be picked up.

Water is boiling in the tea kettle for her; I hold her against my hip. She is longer than her sister was at this age and when she squirms it takes multiple muscle groups to hold her with one hand. She gets fussy between feedings at this time and I have done away with most of the hang-ups of first-time motherhood, so I proudly present her with formula when it seems like she needs it. There’s too much to do anyway to keep her fastened to my chest—a heap of unfolded laundry sprawls over a table, someone’s diaper needs changing, the magic wand needs to be removed as it’s being used to make dents in the wall, the trash is full, pasta is boiling on the stove, a batch of chicken nuggets are in the oven (again).  

I am still not used to this tiny one, a thought that fills me with a guilt I try to swat away. There is enough to feel badly about anyway: Am I making chicken nuggets too often? When will I learn how to cook actual chicken without it turning into a rubbery, inedible mess? When will my house not be sticky? Are they picking up on my anxiety? Oh God, of course they are. I feel my breath grow shallow as I try to deduce every possible way I could fuck them up and which ones would be the best possible scenarios.   

I am not doing a good job of ‘tending this is a swingset or a coffee, like my toddler asks. Be present I tell myself. That’s all that matters. But shit, I also need to fill up a Target order or we won’t have groceries tomorrow, so I make another note on my phone to do it later when they kids are asleep. I picture bedtime hungrily. I think of sleep like some people must think of former lovers, obsessing over it like a secret desire I can’t let go of. Intermingled with this yearning is the overwhelming understanding of how richly I am blessed, another feeling that threatens to tear me open if I sink into it too fully.

When dinner is ready, negotiations begin. If you have one more bite of carrot you can have a cookie! I take deep breaths as food gets thrown on the floor and tears are expressed. If we’re both home, my partner and I switch off a few times, one of us feeding the baby, who continuously arches her back—do I need to try a different formula? Or is it from my milk, and something I’m eating?—and the other one bargaining with our toddler. If it’s just me, the bribes flow more readily. There is more negotiating, more emotional gymnastics that need to happen. I am forced to be my most creative self.

The groundwork must be set that there’s a bath coming after this, so I introduce the idea hesitantly, and it’s considered for a moment before more food is dumped on the floor and a shriek is emitted which echoes around a four-block radius. I write a reminder to buy the gentle parenting course on toddler tantrums, mostly convinced it will not work but needing to learn the hard way, I suppose. In the two seconds I look down at my phone to do this, my child notices and wants my device. When I tell her no, she screams at me again with a fury she’s been saving up since her too-short nap.

I briefly disassociate and wonder at the complexities of my own impatience. How it can seem never-ending at times and then suddenly disappear. How I feel like I have endless amounts of pretending and bargaining and cuddles and songs within me and then suddenly it dries up and curdles over and I feel the blood quicken in my temples, wanting to have a tantrum of my own.

I escape to the bathroom and doomscroll for two minutes, even though I know this will not help me. I am greeted with images and text describing horrific events mixed in with celebrity gossip, mingling with personal updates from acquaintances and friends. It’s a chaotic combination that plants seeds of loneliness which sprout up in my chest: for all of our shared disconnection that should make us more connected; for all the terror in the world and all the people who won’t get to hug their children, screaming, crying, laughing, dancing.

When I emerge I see Frannie trying to make the baby laugh by shrieking like a dolphin, and it’s working well. She has forgotten her tantrums, she has fully enveloped herself in this next, new moment. Everything and everyone I need is in this house, learning how to be in the world by throwing themselves up against the boundaries of my own reserves. This time will go so quickly, as every parent has told me, and I want to be present for all of it. And sometimes it’s as overwhelming to sit with the gratitude and magnitude of these moments—my senses overflowing as I count my blessings—as it is to deal with the temper tantrums or endless to-do lists. It all swirls together as I nervously eat Frannie’s discarded chicken nuggets.

No not finished! She says. Oh, sorry I say awkwardly, backing away. Memories of my mother float to the surface of my mind, of her stealing a few bites between doing the dishes and cleaning our messes and mending things that were broken. I think of how she must have been constantly hungry, too—always eating last, the food cold, probably having to pee, probably trying to remember what was on her grocery list, scared that the world was on fire, scared that she’d never sleep again.

We finagle our way into storytime and pajamas, and we read Clifford the Big Red Dog three times back to back. Fran wants to snuggle in our bed and I think of the day when she won’t want that anymore. I briefly fall asleep with her in my arms before coming to and carrying her to the rocker in her room.

A change of scenery has refreshed her commitment to staying awake. I agree to three more songs and another book, but I draw the line at more snacks. I’m tired, baby I say, sighing against her cheek. Just as I feel my reserves plummet she takes her small stuffed frog and rubs his leg softly against my face. I watch as her eyes close and open slowly, halfway between this reality and another. She is going to dream and when she does I can only hope it is of happy things. I hold her in my arms and smell the top of her head. I think of how impossibly big my love is for her; how I could never describe it, how nothing could ever take it away, how she will never know the weight of it unless, perhaps, she has children of her own.

The rain patters on and the baby starts crying again; we just put her down but she has something new to say. She may be hungry or she may just need us to hold her soft body next to ours and remind her that she is not detached from us, but a part of something greater, that we hold a place for her in this world which we’ve welcomed her to. She has started to find her voice; it is different from sisters’, but full of that same universe of possibilities. One day it will be used to scream at me and call her sister names and also, to tell us she loves us and laugh at something unexpectedly, and sing Spoonful of Sugar for the fifty-leventh time.

After they are both back asleep I creep through the kitchen, side-stepping dried particles of pasta and dust bunnies and a sea of different-sized crayons to get to the cupboards for a snack. I tear open a packet of fruit snacks and devour them like I’ve just run a marathon, hungry for a full meal from nursing and never sitting down. I halfheartedly put away some toys before deciding that the rest can wait. I take myself back outside to listen to the rain, to look at the trees, to absorb the earth in my lungs. All this will fade someday: the temper tantrums, the tiny hands, the sticky floors. I close my eyes and hold myself in the darkness, listening to the rain tell me to hush.