Feeding.
Pumping.
Questions.
Eric complained about the hospital chair.
His back hurt.
The food was terrible.
The room was too cold.
The nurses came in too often.
At one point, I looked at him and said.
“Eric, I just gave birth to three babies.”
He stared at me.
“I know.”
“Then maybe stop complaining about the chair.”
His face hardened.
“I’m allowed to be uncomfortable too.”
I looked away.
That sentence stayed with me.
Not because it was technically wrong.
Of course he was allowed to feel uncomfortable.
But in Eric’s world, his discomfort always seemed to require immediate attention.
Mine was simply something I was expected to endure.
When we finally brought the babies home, I wanted to cry from relief.
Then I realized the hospital had been easier.
At least there had been nurses.
At home, everything became ours.
Feeding schedules.
Diapers.
Laundry.
Sterilizing bottles.
Medication.
Burping.
Sleep logs.
Pediatric appointments.
The girls rarely slept at the same time.
If Lily settled, Emma woke.
If Emma settled, Sophie cried.
If all three slept, I stared at the ceiling because my body had forgotten how to relax.
I was still recovering physically.
I had stitches.
Pain.
Bleeding.
Swelling.
My emotions felt like exposed wires.
Some days, taking a shower felt like winning a championship.
Other days, I realized at four in the afternoon that I had eaten nothing except half a granola bar.
Eric occasionally helped.
Occasionally.
He changed diapers if I handed him everything.
He fed one baby while scrolling on his phone.
He held Sophie for twenty minutes while watching television.
Then he acted like he had completed a twelve-hour shift.
At night, he wore earplugs.
The first time I noticed, I thought I was seeing things.
“You’re wearing earplugs?”
He looked annoyed.
