C doesn’t sleep. I bounce her on the purple ball. I sing, hum, fall silent. I sing more. The sun sets. The neighbour’s outside light turns on and casts the trees outside into shadowy shapes on the curtains. I bounce. The birds go to bed. C does not cry, but she also does not sleep. It is so hot. I imagine the icy I have frozen for myself. My nightly treat in summer: juice frozen into kiddies lolly-makers. Granadilla tonight. Haven’t tasted granadilla. Just need to get the baby to sleep. Then I’ll be free. I’ll watch an episode of something, maybe, while I eat my granadilla icy. I’ll even have two. Two icies tonight, oh, yes, icies, I’m coming for you.
I look down. There she is, awake. I feel a wave of frustration. Fucking, why, like, just, God. Word-spurts spray out of my brain, coming from this aspect of me that just wants to rest, to stop, to goof off.
Another part steps in: one mustn’t. One should be a nice mother. My friend, that long ago girl, she has stage-four lung cancer. What would she give to be bouncing her baby right now? One should be grateful. Be present. Look, look at the beautiful girl.
I look down. Her eyes are like cats about to leap. And so green, green like a brooch worn shining on a lapel, filigreed. Where did the green come from? Ricky and I have brown eyes.
Still I bounce. Here is anger. What in the fuck nuts is going wrong here? Those other moms told me their babies “go down” without the boob and without much fuss after consuming a hearty dinner (“You need to fill her up. That’s the trick. What did you feed her last night?” to which I answer, “I fed the floor spaghetti bolognese.”). How do I improve? How can I make this better and different? This isn’t working. The baby is defective. I am defective. Something must change or I will implode! I am going to google it, as soon as I’m done here. I am going to google a sleep consultant. I am going to read a book. I will sort this goddamn thing out.
Then a counter part pops up. Use it, it says. This is the grist to grind down your ego. Monks and nuns get up for vespers not only to pray but to abraid a self that would rather sleep. It works like water, smoothing, smoothing. Let this frustration and anger be with you as you bounce. That’s it, let it through. But don’t express it. And don’t resist it. What resists persists, remember?
Fuck you, says the angry one. No, no, says the nice mother, you must be a nicer mother. Ag, when will this end, says the one who’s desperate for the icy. C looks on passively, then suddenly twists, squirms, says, “Out, out, dogs!” then looks at me, blinks, begins to pinch my upper arm. And we bounce, the lot of us.
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