Just Outside
by Christy Stockard

Believe it or not, the first time I really realized that sitcom life was useless as a guide for real life was when my wife brought home the baby. One ever-repeating theme in sitcoms in general, I've noticed, is the joyful and quirky phenomenon of human birth. I was expecting our household to be bursting during those first few weeks and months with an overwhelming sense of good will. No such feeling of good will ever did pervade our household. I found myself always walking on the tips of my toes, for fear of waking either the baby or my exhausted wife. I was wary even of touching my wife, since her body was essentially one big, bleeding wound. A lot gets ripped up in the birthing process, more so than you might imagine. It takes a lot longer than three days in the hospital for all that to heal. The damage wasn't limited to her groin, either. She was breast-feeding, and her breasts and nipples were so swollen with milk that I would wince to look at them.

And there was so little sleep. Sleep, it seems, is like any other routine: it takes time to settle into. Our child took his sweet time settling into a sleep routine. Often, as I stood bouncing him in my arms at whatever God-forsaken hour in the morning he had chosen to wake me with his piercing screams, I found myself cursing his tiny head under my breath: "Why won't you just shut up already, you stupid little shit?" A wave of guilt would wash over me at moments like these, guilt so strong and nauseating that that I would flinch. I'd sit down, take a deep breath, and then I would look at my child screaming in my arms and think, "I'm sorry you got stuck with someone so hateful, kid."

One night the baby had already woken us up three times by 4:00 in the morning. I had gotten up the first two times, and my wife had taken the third. At 6 a.m. , I woke up again to find my wife's side of the bed empty. As I twisted my head to look at the clock, I noticed the wailing coming from the baby's room down the hall. I decided to get up, since I had to be at work in an hour and a half anyway. I peeled the covers off and walked down the hall in my pajamas, and at the door to the nursery I stopped. The door was ajar, and from where I stood peering in, I could see my wife standing in the middle of the room near the crib, holding the baby. She was naked from the waist up, having shed her nightgown to breastfeed. She was standing there in just her underwear, clutching the baby to her left breast with both arms, her right hand pressed against his little butt. Her right breast was exposed, the nipple swollen and raw. The screaming baby had his head pressed against her shoulder, so I couldn't see his face. But I could see my wife's face.

Her features were crumpled and red, her mouth a wet, black hole. Tears were coursing along the fine wrinkles that led from the corners of her eyes to her hairline, down her cheeks into her open mouth and along her jawline, then dripping off of her chin. There was no sound coming from her open mouth. Just the tears, and an expression of profound desperation. The despair in her face made me back away from the door.

In a minute, I would go in and put my arms around the both of them, the mother and child grieving for this thing that had happened to them, this simultaneous coming-together and ripping-apart. But for a moment, I just stood there in the dark hallway, just outside the door. I leaned my weight against the wall and hung my head, unable to enter the room, for my heart was swollen, swollen.

Christy Stockard will be graduating from New College of Florida in May (she hopes) with a degree in Philosophy. She loves her cat Hank, and she hates to cook.