Eight

“He’s fine, Katie…he’s with his Dad!”  

I nodded from the backseat, on my way to the fabric store with two friends, my first outing away from my newborn son.  I felt silly for worrying about my baby when I’d left him with his own father.  So along with the panic and the guilt, there was vindication when I heard my name being called over the store intercom a half an hour later.  I could already hear the tiny screams as I reached across the cutting counter for the phone.  

I felt like a paramedic arriving on the scene when I walked through the door.  Stand back please…I’ll take it from here.  His face was red and sweaty from crying, his arms and legs moved frantically.  I could feel him melt with relief as I nursed him, the sounds of sucking interrupted periodically by post-crying hiccups.

Years later now, when I ask for a hug goodnight he holds his body rigid and breaks away quickly.  Shaggy bangs cover the eyes that used to gaze so unflinchingly into mine while he nursed.  But we play a game sometimes.  I lock my arms around him and ask for the password as he laughs and squirms.  With each wrong guess I tighten my grip and he laughs harder.  Tonight I drag the game out… “Not that one…wrong…nope, try again!”  Concern flickers in his brother’s eyes.  “I think that’s too tight Mama.” 

“No,” he says through his giggles, “Tighter...tighter.”