OCR Text |
Show Motherlunge a novel 17 and lay the foundation for a successful mother-daughter bond! When Dorothy had done quite a bit of research and felt strongly that feeding schedules were a thing of the past! All this made Dorothy angry, which was probably bad for her milk. Did she taste bitter, off? She felt that she must. And she felt anxious, worse than ever. Luckily, Dorothy's bed was a warm raft, a place where time moved slowly enough for her to think. Off that bed, outside that bedroom, everyone was pushing her... she only had to dip her hand into the air outside of her blanket to feel the cold speed of the world. Dorothy couldn't catch up. She didn't want to. She wanted to rest. Luckily, her bed was a warm raft. And then one afternoon when Pavia was four months old, Dorothy heard from the other room... a little gasp, a hiccup. She thought about what the sound could be: it was laughter, a small scrap of it. Her baby had laughed! There was Alva's voice, too, saying That's a funny baby! Yes> And it was as if Dorothy had awakened from a long and troubled sleep, a much too-long nap-which, in fact, she really had just done-not knowing if the dim light through the curtains meant morning or afternoon. Yes! she heard Alva saying to her baby. She heard her baby's thin laugh again, bright as foil. Dorothy sat up and pressed a hand to each breast. Her chest was hurting, but it wasn't her breasts; she had stopped lactating weeks ago. There wasn't anything there beneath the palms of her hands, just two fat flaps and ribs underneath them, and her heart sitting far back inside like a rock in a mailbox. Her baby laughing, and her own mother laughing and encouraging her. As if it didn't matter what she, Dorothy, did at all. And they were happy about it! And cruel to let it show. As if Dorothy hadn't tried at all, when it was the baby, truthfully, who had |