It was hard for her to look into the crib at the child and see anything other than a reevaluation. Years of I-will-do-this's and Someday-I'd-like-to's sucking away on the rubber pacifier her mother had warned her against. The rest of her life—what a phrase—was summed up right there in those swaddled eight pounds, eleven ounces. She was large for a girl. She hurt coming out.
She was tired but she couldn't sleep. How long would that last? She was hungry but she couldn't leave her. The child looked up, oddly wide-eyed, oddly present, staring at her mother. Not looking, but staring, with purpose, with knowledge. She knew that children were the honest ones, sometimes brutally so, sometimes wise beyond their little years. Could the wisdom start so soon? Could her daughter possibly know what she was thinking, feeling?
Somehow she knew she was about to cry. She picked the child up and nursed her. She was hungry. They were both hungry. They were both feeding. It was late, and they would sleep together.
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