Helen rushed in, grabbed the baby. He
latched on, biting hard. She yelped. Then, a coy look at Mark. “I just fed him… He must
<
୮
be jealous you’re stealing his milk!”
Romance novel dialogue. Barf. I fled to the
kitchen.
Minutes later, Helen, grabbing formula. “I
don’t want Mark to be jealous. I’ll give him
some formula.
33
Formula: six months, usually. This kid: one
month. Buckle up, kid.
Mom heard about the formula. Exploded.
Stormed in, slapped Helen. “Formula! You’re
starving my grandson!”
“False accusations! You are my elder! I
<
“False accusations! You are my elder! I
accept your reprimand!”
Mom, furious at Helen’s fake–sweet act, went
ballistic. Mark, awkwardly trying to intervene.
Chaos.
“Amy, you’re a doctor! Babies can’t drink
formula!”
“Mom, I’m a surgeon. Pediatrics isn’t my thing.” I wrung my hands, refusing to offer
advice.
Mid–argument, the baby’s cries cut through
the air.
<
the air.
Helen grabbed formula, headed to the
kitchen. She’d filled out. Normally, no
breastfeeding, no suppression meds, equals
mastitis. But Helen…
She caught my eye, puffed out her chest. “I guess I’m just lucky. My milk…redistributed… Mark says I’m curvier than ever.
I smiled sweetly. “So lucky.”
35
Helen filled the kettle with tap water, heated it to 104°F, mixed the formula. “The internet says 104° is best. You’re a doctor. Right?”
<
“Absolutely. You’re always right, Helen.”
“The internet says not too much, but he
seems hungry. Maybe more?”
“The internet gives suggestions. Even pediatricians aren’t as good as moms! You
know best.”
Helen, beaming, fed the baby.
He promptly projectile vomited.
“What fresh hell is this! Are you trying to kill him?!” Mom shoved Helen aside, grabbed the
baby, tears streaming.
<
Helen panicked, turned to me. “What
happened? 104° water! What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong! Formula doesn’t cause
this.”
Helen frantically consulted Dr. Google, then sighed in relief. “My mommy group says newborn diarrhea is normal. It’ll pass.”
I almost agreed, but Mark, the only sane one present, spoke. “Mommy groups? Hospital!
Now!”
He grabbed his keys. Mom shrieked, “Hospital? You know why he’s sick! No
く
“Hospital? You know why he’s sick! No
breastfeeding! Grandma will feed him!”
She stormed off with the baby. I peeked.
Mom unbuttoned her shirt, offering her
breast!
Mom was 50!
No way…
The baby, confused, took a few tentative
sucks, then wailed. But, starving, he latched
- on.
Mom beamed. “There, there. Grandma’s milk.
I saved it just for you‘
く
I saved it just for you.”
“I didn’t even give this to Amy. Girls just need
rice cereal. Boys need this, to grow big and
strong.”
“Drink up, my precious grandson.”
Mom’s happy face made me sick. I didn’t
remember being a baby, just being frail,
unlike robust Mark.
Discriminated against from birth!
She hated girls, yet she was one! Her
precious son, grandson, carried a man’s
name, continuing a man’s line.
<
Why did men always get off scot–free, while
women clawed at each other over baby boys?
“Full now? Grow big and strong!”
I laughed coldly. Let’s see how long he lasts.
Fast forward, Christmas. Six months. Helen: glowing, curvier, smoother skin, practically
adolescent.
She thought it was rejuvenation.
It was hormonal chaos. The gender pills:
irreversible damage.
<
“Goo goo…” Helen’s son, Peter, formula–fed
by day, “breastfed” by Mom at night. Seven
months, bigger than other babies, huge head,
swatting at me with chubby fists.
Mom and Dad: “So strong! Hit her again!”
Mark: besotted.
Mom, seeing my frown, said, “A baby’s hit doesn’t hurt! Be happy he’s strong!”
I pointed Peter at Mom.
Peter grinned, punched Mom in the nose.
Blood spurted.
<
“Mom! Oh my god! Get a tissue!”
Helen fussed over Mom. Mark had them both
eating out of his hand. Helen put Peter on the
table. He peed in my glass, giggled.
