Roused

She wakes in the night again, and she is screaming. The last time she woke up to eat, I was dreaming that everything I owned was filled with tiny worms. I was happy to be excused from that scenario. Now, my dream finds me on a leisurely shopping trip in an enormous store filled with beautiful and unusual house goods. I am less pleased to be shuffling over to her bed, bringing her into mine.

She screams. I try to nurse her on one side. She screams. The other side. The first side again. Now the second. Switch. Switch. The milk will not come down. Screaming. Her mouth is wide, and I see two small, menacing teeth ghosting under the surface of her gums like jellyfish.

I press my hands on her wet face, urge her pacifier into her mouth. SHHH, I hiss in one ear and then the other. "Who do you think you are?!" my sleepy brain hollers at her silently. "You were just born six months ago! Your needs are not unique or interesting! Do you think you invented breastfeeding? Who are you to make demands? No one cares that you would rather eat once the milk is already flowing without having to work for it."

She screams. The milk starts. She eats. She calms. She finishes. She gazes up at me, sparkly-eyed, turning her head softly. She begins to talk to me in a low murmur, eyes locked into mine: "Ah-vvvvvvvvvv. Ah-vvvvvvvvvv."

All is well. I have never loved anyone this much. We go back to sleep and I dream that I am standing on the street and eating pizza.