Everything is quiet in Brooklyn, NY. Mommy is sleeping on an inflatable bed, in the almost bare room on the first floor of a town-house. The dad is there too. Snoring slightly. The green nightlight on the wall, the room looks dim and weird, with three chairs, floor lamp, workout machine and a inflatable bed in the middle. Suddenly the night is pierced by the shrill voice. The mom is up in her bed. It’s her baby. It’s like he is being tormented by thousand little creatures who are pulling him apart. She is waiting. She thinks he might calm down in several seconds. She hopes he will calm down. She’s not completely awaken, her eyes are still half-closed after the heavy sleep. But the shrills do not cease. They seem to be getting louder.
She goes into his bedroom, picks him up and looks into his face. His eyes are closed, but he continues crying. She tries to rock him, saying: “There, there, don’t be scared. I am here. I love you, my dearest, don’t cry, oh please don’t.” Her voice is getting the whining notes at end of the clause. She tries to sing him a lullaby, rocking him slightly in her arms. His head is at the crook of her arm, his eyes shut, his body turned towards hers. He wants the warmth of her body, the peace of her arms, the sweetness of her breasts. He wants her to stay forever.
She wants the warmth of her bed, the peace of her own room and the sweetness of her dreams. She wants to leave now. Her voice falters, her body aches. She feels no sympathy with him. She sits down on the only chair left in the room and holds him. He calms down, sobbing occasionally.
Probably it was not a good idea to schedule the weaning for the same time when we left him for three days for the first time, she thinks. Besides, he’s in the new place. All this stress accumulates. He got used to the mommy who was always there, with warm sweet milk always ready. Then suddenly she leaves him, and when she is back, there is not much milk left in her breasts, and which is worse she doesn’t let him suck on her for as long as he wants.

She gets up and puts him down in his port-a-crib. It’s half past one in the morning. He cries. She goes back to bed. His dad is awake. The boy keeps on crying. They lie in bed their eyes closed, their heads pounding. She plugs her ears. It’s not much better. “Maybe I will go to him”, says the man. He is off to the baby’s room. She can hear his muffled distant voice, the baby quiets dow. She starts drifting off to sleep. But the sudden shriek tears her off from her slumber.
The man is back. The baby is crying. “Let him cry, she says. Maybe he’ll calm down on his own.” She’s trying to sleep. The plugs don’t help. He says smth. She can’t hear him. The plugs go off. “What’s wrong with him?” he asks. “He doesn’ feel hot or ill”. “It’s stranger anxiety,” she replies. “He wants to be with us. But I can’t. I hate it.”
The crying won’t stop. She goes to pick up the bottle from the upper floor. He refuses to drink. She takes him in her arms. He calms down instantly. His eyes like tiny slits, his face is like a prune. His body limp. Rocking him again. Just holding him. Telling him something. Minutes go by. She can’t stand it. She has to go back. He has to sleep. She puts him down. Pats him on his belly, strokes his forehead and cheeks. He looks at her. He’s not crying. His eyes are dark in the dim light. He weakly says something in his own language. She smiles. She leaves. The crying starts again. This time she’s sure he’ll calm down. Several more outbursts of crying, with pauses between them getting longer, and everybody’s asleep. Till the morning, till the new day, till the new struggle.

- posted by ET @ 12:17 PM