My Cheating Heart

He reaches out to me, cheeks wet with tears. His chest rises in a tremendous sob, snot running from his little nose.

Mumum, Mumum!

I lean over the high rail of his crib to rescue him from a hot tangle of blankets and lovies. His brown monkey looks up at us as I lift the baby to safety. I press my face to his face, and his body shakes with sadness.

Mumum, Mumum!

In the next room, I hear the low rumble of my husband’s voice, and my daughter’s high, wavering counterpoint. They argue; she yells and begins to wail in anger. I hear him count to three, then the gurgle of water draining from the tub.

With my little boy still pressed against my neck, and I shut the door on the sounds of my oldest child’s despair.

I should go to her, but I want to hold this fleeting baby sweetness in the palm of my hand.

***

He plays with me, his bright blue eyes alight with the furious pace of his intellectual development. Throw Mama the ball, I tell him. He lobs the sphere at me with his left hand, hooting and grinning wildly. Walk to Mama, I tell him. He squats, pushes up with his knees and toddles over to me, tilting this way and that, as if he can feel the earth’s rotation beneath his feet.

I clap and giggle with delight when he collapses in my lap. Just for a moment, he lays his head on my chest, and pats my arm. The gesture is fleeting and a sharp pain flashes through me when he gets up again, on the move, discovering the world.

She stands nearby, arms folded across her chest.

Play with me, she says, her eyes both challenging me and pleading with me. Play Polly Pockets.

Baby girl, you know we can’t play Pollys when the baby is awake, I tell her gently. The baby pulls my pants and I laugh.

You don’t love me, she mutters, and flees the room before I can reply, and the moment passes.

***

I lay on the bed with her, the scent of soap and shampoo envelopes us. Her damp curls look as dark as midnight against the pastel pillow, and her satin princess nightie swirls around her perfectly formed calves.

She looks up at me with her hazel eyes and asks for one more story. I consent, reluctant to let go of her warm, freshly bathed body.

I hold her a little too hard when the story is over. I press her against me, yearning to make her small again, drinking in her girlhood. She looks up at me, parts her rosebud lips.

Mama, do you still love me?

My heart shatters as I tell her again and again how I love her, all the ways in which she makes my life complete. I praise her, I compliment her, I caress her soft forearm and kiss her fingers one by one.

You are my heart, my love, my firstborn, I tell her. You made us a family.

Over the monitor the baby wails. I get up and turn the volume down, squelching his cries. I return to the bed, for a forbidden third bedtime story.