Page 6 of His Surrender

The next thirty minutes are more of the same. Me desperately walking her around, wondering if every little sound she makes is normal.

By the time desperation outweighs confidence, I buckle her into the motorized swing and switch on the white noise machine Frieda insisted I’d learn to appreciate.

She settles within seconds.

I stand frozen like a statue, afraid to disrupt whatever it is that is making the screaming stop.

Eventually, her pink eyelids flutter closed.

Relief floods through me just long enough for panic to take its place. I crouch down onto the ground and watch her little belly move up and down.

My muscles relax immediately.

Good.

She’s breathing.

My stomach grumbles. I glance at my watch. It’s nearly nine, and I haven’t had dinner yet.

I don’t want to risk waking Liana, so instead of ordering something and making too much noise, I creep over to the pantry and pull out a protein bar, eating it over the sink like it’s a five-star meal.

By the time I collapse onto the couch with my phone in hand, exhaustion settles over me like a weighted blanket.

I don’t remember closing my eyes.

The shrill cry coming from the swing tells me I must have.

The coffee goes down like water. Normally, I’d savor the rich, bold taste, but sleep deprivation has a funny way of dulling life’s little pleasures. At this point, I’m only drinking it because caffeine feels like my last remaining lifeline.

I don’t know how many hours of sleep I got last night.

Two?

Maybe three if you add up all the scattered stretches between feedings.

Once we moved to my bedroom with Liana in the bassinet beside me, it felt like every time I closed my eyes, she opened hers.

After getting her down for a morning nap, I find myself standing in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the disaster around me.

There are bottles waiting to be washed, formula sitting out on the counter, and laundry overflowing from the basket.

Something has to change. I can’t keep pretending I can do this on my own.

My company doesn’t stop because I suddenly became a father. And neither does a two-month-old. Both demand my full attention, and sooner or later, one of them is going to lose.

The nanny agencies all said the same thing. They have wait lists and can’t get me a live-in nanny for another month.

I can’t do a month.

I don’t even think I can do another week of Frieda for eight hours only.

Nothing about this feels natural.

Every diaper change feels like I’m doing it wrong. When I feed her, I’m constantly consumed with worry that I’m feeding her too much—or worse, too little.

Every cry sends me searching the internet because I have no idea what she’s trying to tell me.

I need to talk to someone. I can’t carry this alone.