Previously
At a little past midnight Chris leads his son to the table and points to one of the chairs. Noah obediently climbs into it but makes a face when his father sets a bowl with yogurt, kiwis, honey, and almonds in front of him in addition to the requested glass of water. Noah, who earlier had refused dinner, shakes his head and responds stubbornly, "Not eating it, not hungry."
Leaning against the wall Chris crosses his arms in front of his chest and calmly replies, "It's not a request."
ooooo
When I join them for breakfast Chris hands me a cup of tea. "Feel up to eating?" he asks quietly.
"Not yet," I reply still making peace this a.m. with my ongoing morning sickness.
Noah, with the selective preternatural hearing all children possess where they never hear you call for them but always catch all things you don't want them to, interjects in a spot-on imitation of his father, "It's not a request."
ooooo
Five Years Ago
Chris is changing and dressing Noah when the notification chimes signaling the arrival of his parents. After double checking the clothes I put on this morning are, in fact and miraculously, still clean, I pause at the door, too nervous to open it. First impressions are important, can't be retracted.
And I am not at my best.
I am still standing there, frozen, when Chris enters. He brushes my cheek with a kiss, places his hand on the small of my back which calms and comforts, and promises, "They're going to love you."
As he greets our visitors I shrink back, angling my body slightly behind my husband who beams with pride when introducing his parents to six-week-old Noah. And I silently thank the gods my thoughtful partner is centering the attention on their grandson giving me time to settle.
Senior Mr. Pike advances in my direction looking as if he is about to envelope me in a bear hug. Caught off guard, I step away. Chris' mother tugs his arm whispering, "Boundaries, dear."
They and Chris sit on the large sofa, parents flanking their son. I choose a chair in the corner, joining the group but keeping to its edges. The trio begins exchanging a bevy of family news, as if they have been apart two weeks rather than two years. Soon Chris and his father disagree over a minor detail. What was most likely heated arguments during teenage years has morphed into fond banters. His mother catches my eye and winks after tsking in pretend exasperation. Their easy interaction bleeds away some of my nervousness and my shoulders relax.
In my head, based on Chris' descriptions, I've dubbed my father and mother in-law, respectively, Professor Pike and The Vet. Nearly two hours have passed, and the rest of my anxiety has ebbed away. During that time I've learned the Professor took his wife's last name when they married, that she turned down his first two proposals before accepting, worn down, as senior Mr. Pike relays with a twinkle in his eyes just like Chris' when he's feeling mischievous, by charm and homemade waffles. Their romance began when he spotted her in a local coffee shop after a recent move to her hometown, and, on learning of her profession, adopted a dog as a way to meet.
Much of what I love about my husband is reflected in his parents. He inherited his blue eyes, dark hair, athleticism, and height from his mother who is four inches taller than her spouse; his broad shoulders as well as those 'can't be resisted' dimples are traits from his father. Professor Pike is insatiably curious and playful, the Vet practical and observant, I feel she misses nothing in the room. His father is forthright, his mother diplomatic. Both are outgoing and radiate warmth.
"… once Chris learned to walk, keeping track of him was an impossibility," his father says, "by age seven he was slipping away to the climb the mountain ranges surrounding Mojave." A pause. He turns to Chris. "Last week your letter arrived announcing we would be grandparents," his hand gently cups Noah's head, "and today your son is in your mother's arms. Distance, relativity, the quirks of long-range communications, and bureaucracy are interesting bedfellows. It's breathtaking, wondrously so, but I'm still catching up."
I smile as Noah is passed back and forth between his doting paternal grandparents. They talk to him in low, affectionate tones. Responding to their attentions, he coos, gurgles, curls his tiny fingers around theirs, and is content. My son knows no strangers, in his first four weeks of life he'd been held by almost every member of Enterprise's crew. Not once, that I am aware of, did he cry.
Lately, most of the time, Noah fusses when in my arms. My smile fades. I can't figure out why or what I'm doing wrong. From across the room Chris' eyes catch mine telegraphing concern while also silently saying, 'I love you,' pulling me back from a spiral into a bad place I've been visiting more and more. I fear I am inching too close to the edge of an abyss and will one day tumble over it. At the bottom of this deep hole is a truth I am desperate to avoid – I am bad at mothering.
In response, I place a hand over my heart, and he nods.
At the two-hour mark, on schedule, the familiar and occasionally loathed pins and needles and full feeling in my breasts begins. And I get insatiably thirsty. On cue, Noah begins crying. "It's that time," I murmur. Retrieving the baby, I slip into the nursery.
A few minutes later Chris' mother asks, "May I come in?"
I start to refuse. But having failed to shut the door tightly, it pushes open as she knocks. This happens simultaneously as Noah's mouth clamps like a vise grip on my nipple, which is already chaffed, bleeding at times, and beyond sore. There isn't time to hide my flinch or tremor.
"Yeah," she says with sympathy, "in pictures and movies breast feeding looks blissful, even romantic. Few admit to its messy side. And that it hurts like hell sometimes." She points to the door, "I can leave, and we'll pretend this never happened."
"No need." With a head tilt, I gesture to the other chair in the room.
My mother-in-law slides a pillow under my arm, the one baby rests on. "More support will ease the discomfort in your back," she explains, "Chris mentioned you injured it the night Noah was born."
I nod in confirmation, afraid if I speak all my contradictory emotions will spill out in a rush.
She settles into the chair. "Did Chris memorize all the baby books stored in the ship's library?"
"Yes." My succinct reply is more chuckle than speech. "And was a bit put out when I didn't want to discuss with him the more vivid details of what was to come."
"You're smart," my mother-in-law replies. "I'd also wager he followed you around the ship, ensuring you did everything the books and doctors recommended."
"Uh-huh," I answer. "Which bordered at times on smothering. And triggered a few … disagreements."
"Scouting had an outsized effect on Chris. Encouraging that may have been an error on our part," she muses then smiles. "His father did the same. And accompanied me on every callout for a sick patient, taking a leave of absence from teaching during my pregnancy in order to be available for these visits at any hour of the day or night. My husband grew up in the city, so horses, cows, sheep, and other farm animals were not in his past experiences. This added a great deal of needed comic relief to these outings."
"It must be odd for you, a stranger marrying your son while he's off-planet," I say while disengaging Noah and switching him to my other breast. In habit I hide any response to the resulting discomfort.
"Yes and no," is the response. "Given Chris' profession, we expect to miss milestones in his life. And you're not a stranger, we simply do not know you well." Another smile. "Yet."
We fall into a companionable silence. I like her style. Down to earth with no over the top sentiments. Her acceptance of me feels real, and a friendship possible.
When Noah finishes nursing, she gathers him in her arms and deftly manages the burping chores. "Was it difficult carrying a child with no one to talk to who had been through the same experience? Though I'm certain your crewmates were well-meaning."
My eyes moisten. I nod. When my voice can be trusted not to crack, I answer, "Everyone one was kind and caring, but … there were times … a lot of them … when I wanted … I needed to know if what I felt … if the changes in my body … all the emotions swirling in my head … were normal." I sigh then confess, "And I could have used advice on how to handle everything with more grace. I was pretty ratty to Chris."
She scoffs. "He's a grownup with big shoulders. And it was his job to smooth away the rough edges." After pressing a finger to her lips, she carefully stands and gingerly lays Noah in his crib then whispers, "He's fast asleep, let's rejoin the others."
ooooo
"Christopher, I'd like to take a walk in the park. Will you escort me?" his mother asks when we return to the living room. She exchanges a silent but knowing look with her husband who nods. I take a seat on the sofa.
"Go on, I'll catch up later," Chris replies, attention focused elsewhere.
"It's not a request," she adds in a tone sounding nonchalant but greatly serious as only a parent can.
I place a hand over my mouth, hiding amusement. That statement is an oft used and well-known Captain Pikeism.
And he got it from his mother.
His father leans over and says to me, as if relaying a confidence, "We're all bossy like that, the three of us. Chris, my wife, and me. Now you know." He grins, exposing both dimples; to his son he says, "This is one of those moments where you meekly say 'Yes ma'am' or I meekly say 'Yes dear.'"
The Vet rolls her eyes at her husband. My shoulders shake from the effort not to laugh out loud.
Professor Pike continues, "Face it Chris, you may command a ship's crew and more, but your stripes are meaningless when facing your mother."
My amusement spills into outright, happy laughter.
Chris crooks his arm and offers it to his mother. "Shall we then?"
