The Crooked Branch

ceiling. I glance down at my engorged boob. It’s bigger than Emma’s head. Disgusting. I feel a hot blush creeping up my neck.

I always wanted to be one of those effortless, French-style women who can breast-feed discreetly anywhere, but I’m not. For me, breast-feeding requires a Boppy, a footstool, a glass of water, and substantial nudity.

I don’t want to become a woman who hangs up on her husband, but there are lots of things I didn’t want to become. I’ll just add this to the list.

After all, it’s hard enough in therapy, being honest with the woman I’m paying to be the receptacle of my deepest fears; how am I supposed to be honest with the woman who’s the harbinger of them?

When I finish shopping, I take two more laps around the shop just to fill up some extra minutes with people and food and comforting public noises.

It’s postapocalyptic, motherhood.

Then they ate a water soup she made from dandelions and nettles.

What about ME? I just had a baby over here! But I am deeply cowardly, and the words stay buried somewhere in my solar plexus.

In fact she says this whenever I tell her that Emma is fussy. She says, “Well, she can probably sense how uptight you are, and that makes her uptight, too,” which is obviously a very helpful observation. But now