Yesterday, everything was dismal. It was cold and rainy, and I couldn't bear to try going anywhere. The baby screamed, Steve snarled, I wept. We felt pent up and incompetent. Our eyes slowly melted out of our heads. We hardly noticed our nice dinner and finally fell wretchedly into bed.But this morning we woke up from a night infinitely more restful than the one before. In the morning the baby slept while I worked. At midday she snugged peacefully against Steve's chest while I made lunch. In the afternoon I stuffed her into her sling and went for a long walk while Steve got some work done at the cafe: first to the library and then on a meandering path to the ice cream shop. The sun was hot and bright, so I shaded her face with the tail of my scarf.
On the way back I ate my gelato—pistacho and chocolate—and got so warm I took my jacket off. I joined Steve at the cafe and read a bit of a library book. One of the other regulars came past our table, on crutches because of some recent back surgery, and said, "Oh, I didn't realize you had a baby hidden in your shirt!"
"Yes, she's my secret ambush baby," I said.
"Do you think I can sit behind you without being ambushed?"
"You should be safe. She's on standby at the moment."
And so she was, making only the occasional mumbled mewl until we left to walk home in the evening that was still light, thanks to daylight saving. She cavorted nude on her woolly blanket and didn't pee on anything. We gazed deeply into one another's eyes. Dinner was delicious and we even noticed.
I wish today could be bottled so that I had something to drink when she's being inconsolable at 4 in the morning.