“Come see her,” Mormor said to Jack, perhaps a little sharper than she should have. To soften it, she smiled at him and walked his way, the baby cradled against her chest. She instructed him to sit in the chair next to my bed, where Devi had been a little while ago, and then, with the utmost care, she showed him exactly how he had to hold our daughter. He supported her little neck, he notched her into the crook of his arm. He stared at her face and he looked...amazed.

“She’s beautiful,” he said, almost reverently.

“Yeah she is. And hairy,” I said. “But don’t worry, that’ll fall out.”

Caroline moved in beside her son and crouched, her head hovering over the baby’s. “Oh, Jack. Sara. She’s lovely. So lovely,” she said.

...yeah.

Yeah, she really was.

My kid was amazeballs.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Eight

There’s a movie my mom likes called Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. It’s pretty much a white-boy wank-fest, but there’s a quote in it I like. Ferris, white-boy wanker primero uno, breaks the fourth wall to tell you to stop and look around at life, it’s moving pretty fast.

It’s a surprising piece of wisdom from a dude whose greatest life achievement is bucking his high school’s attendance policy. I like it, though. It’s a good message, and one that seemed relevant to my situation.

Things had to change with a kid in the picture. I wasn’t in school during the day because I was at home discovering that infants dislike sleep but are very pro-food, and my boobs were the food of choice. It was bizarre to have a tiny adorable parasite to take care of, but I got used to it quicker than I expected I would. Mom took the first two weeks off to give me a hand, but after she went back to work, Mormor was there for me.

For better or worse.

“You’re messy.” Mormor paused her stirring of brownie batter to motion at me with a chocolate-smeared spoon. “You’ll want to do the thing.”

“What?”

I had Cass set up in her bassinet beside the kitchen table, which had wheels on the bottom so I could move it between the kitchen and living room with relative ease. I devoured an omelet and bacon because, post-pregnancy, eggs were back on the table again, much to my delight.

“You need to use the milking machine your mother bought you. You are leaking.”

“I’m not a cow, Mormor. God.”

She sighed, exasperated. “What do you call it then? The breast pump. There, are you happy? You will want to use it. Your tuttar are doing the thing.”

I glanced down. Two perfect circles stained my gray T-shirt on either side of my chest.

Oh, yes, my tuttar were most certainly doing “the thing.” They did “the thing” more often than not.