Five Years Ago

"You have to eat something," Chris urges, trying to keep frustration out of his tone and almost succeeding.

I snuggle deeper into the sofa, rearranging the pillows in an attempt to ease the pain in my back. Rubbing doesn't soothe bleary eyes. My only wish is my husband will shut up so I can catch an hour's nap before the baby wakes again. "Not hungry."

This has become a familiar and often repeated argument between us these past two weeks.

Silently he counts backward: ten, nine, eight, onto one. Pauses. Repeats slowly: ten … nine … eight … Then speaks when confident his voice is measured but the still words come out as a plea, "I'll make you anything that sounds tempting."

"I just … can't … face food right now, even the smell of it bothers me."

"Sweetheart, green tea and toast isn't enough while also breastfeeding Noah."

"Please stop nagging me Chris," though my tone of voice and frown clearly indicate I'm not asking.

He begins, "Noah …" And as if uttering the name summons the person, our six-week-old son begins crying. No crying is a soft, gentle sound. Lately, Noah has taken to wailing. Loudly.

I close my eyes, internalizing this change as a fault in my care of him. Then push away from the back of the sofa, preparing to get up and see to my son, bracing arms on the cushion for the inevitable discomfort when I change position.

Chris lays a hand on my shoulder. "My turn. He ate thirty minutes ago, so hunger isn't the problem."

I reach for his hand as he rises, clasping it against my cheek. "Sorry about the rattiness. I'm just so tired. I do know I'm irritable and hellish to be around."

Leaning down, he caresses my other cheek and places an affectionate kiss on the top of my head. "I've lived through days long emergencies with life and death balanced on a knife's edge and not felt this wiped out. And I'm not dealing with round-the-clock, every two-hour feedings."

My guilt for snapping at him increases two-fold. And it was already pretty big. Chris is an engaged and thoughtful partner and doesn't deserve my behavior towards his concern. At the moment I am a not great wife in return. When did I become so petty and unkind? I ask myself. So I throw him a bone. "Soup? The chicken noodle soup you make?" And cross my fingers that by the time it's done I can tolerate a few bites.

His smile beams. I must remember he needs tasks. Chris has gone from having over four hundred souls in his care to only two serving as an outlet for his nurturing instincts. Why do I keep forgetting this? He's adjusting to a new life as well.

Via the baby monitor I hear Chris enter the bedroom serving as a nursery. He coos to his son and speaks soothingly in nonsensical phrases. Noah's wails cease as soon as he is in his father's arms.

Underscoring another one of my inadequacies. With increasing frequency, Noah only quiets in my arms when his mouth is clamped on my breast. Fastened like a vise grip. Sucking with the force and fury of a black hole. Last night slipping my finger into his mouth didn't break the suction and I had to wake Chris for his larger hands. How can a tiny baby have such strength?

I switch off the speaker when I hear Chris settle into the rocker and begin a story about a band of wild horses roaming the Rocky Mountains. Time enough in the coming years to worry about my son riding an animal with a mind of its own. A very tall animal. No, think of something else.

And on cue the leaks begin damping my bra and shirt. Noah has a hearty appetite and I produce milk accordingly. If we lived in the middle ages, wet nurse would prove a lucrative career for me. This is a turnaround from the first three weeks when my body barely made enough to sustain him. I hope this leak is a tiny blip. But soon the engorgement discomfort turns painful. There's no other help for it. I sigh and retrieve the pump.

There is one thing which induces more nausea than the thought of food – the smell of breastmilk. No one told me symptoms similar to morning sickness can rear their ugly head again post-partum.

ooooo

Chris tiptoes out of the nursery, peeking around the corner, checking …

"Awake," I call out as I prepare bottles for the milk from the pump.

"Oh. Damn. I hoped the break gave you a chance to catch a few winks." He gently nudges me aside. "I'll do this."

Nothing in our apartment is ours except for Noah's extensive paraphernalia. Not that the living space is uncomfortable, but it feels like the standard Starfleet base housing it is rather than our home. And I think the familiar would help my feelings of disconnectedness, would alleviate some of my aloneness. I'd have preferred remaining on Enterprise where my relationship began with Chris began, where I passed my pregnancy, until finding a place of our own, but the ship is being rebuilt after the battle she fought the night Noah was born.

After that battle, once Enterprise was space worthy again, not knowing who attacked us and if their aggression was aimed purposefully at the Federation, knowing a single damaged ship and its crew wouldn't survive further hostilities with these mystery beings, Chris made the decision to race for Federation space. Once at the border the flagship was escorted to Starbase One. We arrived two weeks ago, three months ahead of schedule. And I can tell from the look in his eyes Chris is worried the first encounter was a testing of our defenses, a prelude to more. Three ships have been dispatched to the area in order to gather further intelligence.

And once on Earth, Chris debriefed his superiors, turned Enterprise over to Una, and, without a backwards glance, began paternity leave of unspecified length.

He pauses while stacking bottles into the stasis unit and turns facing the kitchen bar where I am sitting. "I'm going to cancel my parent's visit tomorrow. Wait until you are feeling up to it, until you've had a night's sleep. They will understand."

I shake my head. "You haven't seen them in person for two years. And I imagine they are excited to meet their grandson."

"And their daughter-in-law," he adds.

"Pushing them off is cruel," I finish my point. "And …" my voice drifts off.

"Go on."

"Never mind, not important." I offer my best smile, the one reserved for him.

"You're sure?" Chris asks, still skeptical and considering postponing.

I nod. Then approach him and wrap my arms around his waist. Our foreheads touch and linger. I whisper, "And I promise to eat the soup tonight."