The warm weight in Plourr's arms has never stopped feeling strange. She wonders if it ever will. She carries Ianna correctly, holds her by the book -- and she holds her as if she could break at any moment. She's at a pretty good size (especially for a kid who's only 17 days old), which Plourr can personally attest to, but she still looks tiny in Plourr's big arms.
It's pretty spaced.
At the same time, though, some of it's pretty okay, Plourr thinks. Watching Rial with her, ignoring the twinges of jealousy at how naturally good he is with her. Laughing at the terrible, indignant faces that she makes when she cries. Holding her close when she's just drifting off to sleep, making a soft noise or two, her little fists slowly coming to a rest against her captive audience's arm or shoulder. Those precious few moments every day where she isn't screaming, crying, sleeping, spitting up, or shitting, when she stares up at you with those big, wide eyes.
All of that makes nights like tonight worth it. Hopefully.
By this point, the tiny-looking princess in question has been fed, burped, and has had her diaper changed, and is resolutely resisting all efforts to be put down to sleep.
With no one to bear witness, Plourr presses a light, lingering-but-frustrated kiss to the green hat. "Shhh," she murmurs, walking with Ianna tucked against her shoulder and with a bounce in her step, "shhhh. I would really like to get two hours sleep on the night, here, so if you could just--" She turns at the window and starts pacing, prowling, back across the room again. "Oh Jesus Christ, don't you ever sleep?"
Ianna does not listen to reason.
She exhales sharply, barely resisting the urge to stop rubbing Ianna's back so that she can dig the heel of her hand into her own eyes and scream.
"Hey." Rial's finally pulled himself out of bed, and is leaning against the doorframe, watching the two. A lot of nights seem to end up like this, one or the other or both of them pacing and trying to calm Ianna down long enough for her to drift off to sleep. Unfortunately, she seems to have been born without that particular need, and it's way harder then it sounds.
As she turns back toward Rial and the door in the darkened nursery, she repeats, "No" less sharply, in an unspoken acknowledgment that she spoke too harshly.
"I have to be able to do this," she says, moving constantly on silent bare feet as the thin wails continue from her shoulder. "You can't always bail me out."
Plourr forces herself to take a deep breath in and release it before she answers him. "First thing I checked," she says, "and I just changed her ten minutes ago."
It was an awful lot of shavit for such a small thing, she'd say if she were in the mood, but she's not in the mood tonight; she's in a mood. A mood that involves the need for sleep warring with her stubbornness and the aching need to be able to do this; the fear that she won't be able to always pulsing just out of her reach behind her eyes.
"I've been walking with her," she says, "I took her out on the balcony and showed her the stars, I tried the bouncing thing, I fed her, changed her, burped her, set the mobile going, wrapped her up in blankets -- hell, I even sang to her, and you know I can't hold a tune." And, more importantly, that she hates even trying.
Plourr's lips are compressed, her face already starting to take back some of the characteristic sharpness that was lost due to weight gain, and she says over the noise of the crying, "I don't know what else I'm supposed to do, except say, 'Stop crying already, goddamnit' and do a Jedi thing."
Pacing, she looks down. "Stop crying already. You're supposed to have a connection with me. Stop crying."
"Maybe it's your singing that's doing it," he says, but the edge of humor that's supposed to be there really isn't. It's been a long night. It's been a long week, hell, everything since she's been born has been long. And it's not that it's not rewarding, seeing her when she's asleep and snuggled up to something, or when she's just quiet and peering at things in that vaguely unfocused way she has, it's just tiring. And hard.
"Listen," he says finally, and he thinks he might get beaten down for this but they both need sleep and this isn't helping at all. "Just let me try really quickly, Plourr, this isn't going anywhere. It's okay."
A part of Plourr delights in seeing Ianna scream and carry on; she's alive, she's loud and proud and in the land of the living, and won't let anyone forget that.
Besides, she's kinda cute with her face all screwed up and red like that.
But the rest of her hates to hear the kid unhappy; hates that something is wrong and she doesn't seem to be able to figure out what it is or fix it.
"It's not okay," she says, but it's more distressed than angry. There's persistent, and then there's pointless, and Plourr Estillo has always prided herself on the ability to distinguish between the two. She takes the couple of steps necessary over to Rial in the armchair and she carefully passes Ianna into his arms, her mouth set in a miserable line.
Rial decides that he's not even going to try and respond to that, attention focused on the tiny bundle in his arms. Ianna whines and hiccups, crying toning itself down slightly as she adjusts to the feeling of new arms around her, and then climbing back up into the earsplitting scale.
Rial just holds her though, for a moment, letting her scream all she wants. He remembers being ten, almost eleven, and holding Plourr in his arms - she'd been fussing, thinking about crying, and her mother had passed her off to him for a moment while she went to find a bottle. He'd held her carefully like she might break, and she'd thought about it for a moment before opening her mouth and yelling angrily up at him.
It's really not that different now, and he suspects she's crying just for the sake of crying. Holding her a little closer, letting her thrash against his chest, he leans down to look at her face.
"You can stop any time," he says mildly, then settles back to wait.
Plourr sits on the arm of the chair, pulling her feet up in a balancing act that she makes look easy--and a hell of a lot easier now, without a baby under her belt--and resting her forearms on her knees.
She watches father and daughter quietly and, after a moment, she reaches down and gently brushes a rough-skinned thumb across Ianna's cheek. "You're perfectly fine, girl."
Gradually, the wailing diminishes into fussing, then quieter fussing. Ianna would still be crying, it seems like she indignantly would like her parents to know, but it is Very Tiring.
Rial breathes a not-so-quiet sigh of relief as the volume of her crying goes down, smoothing a hand over her head. With luck, she'll sleep now, and not wake them up for a while.
Hopefully.
Whispering, trying not to disturb her, "You want to put her to bed?"
The swap is effected as smoothly as possible, and Plourr holds her breath as Ianna opens her mouth, not sure what the fuck she'll do if Ianna starts to cry again the second that she touches her -- but it's only to give a baby-sized cough and then blink drowsily up at Mama.
Plourr's smile flashes, swift and tiny and painfully genuine, in the dim-lit room, and then she nudges Rial's shoulder with hers and levers herself up. Out the door, through the informal living area, down the hall, and disappearing into their bedroom; her feet could walk this path by themselves by now, and more or less do, in the dark.
Rial gives it a minute or so before getting up as well, wandering after Plourr. He pauses only once to turn the light all the way off before following her path into the bedroom.
He pauses, a moment, just inside the door to watch them together. Sometimes he thinks he's never seen something more beautiful.
Plourr shoots an amused glance over her shoulder, but she says nothing to him, instead turning back to untangling Ianna from the blankets she'd been wrapped up in. Ianna only smacks her lips sleepily, the lack of so much as a sound of protest signifying just how tired she is, and Plourr's mouth quirks again. She lays Ianna on her back in the bassinet, and that lopsided half-smile turns into a snort of a stifled snicker as she pulls off the baby's hat and gets a look at the lovely hairstyle that has formed underneath.
"A real looker, you are," she murmurs, shaking her head and carefully smoothing the red down.
Ianna's eyes, half-shut, stare up at her.
"Sleep." Plourr tweaks her nose gently. "Do it, or I will take your nose as collateral."
Ianna looks like she's considering protest - a tiny fist waves vaguely, and she opens her mouth - but the possible scream becomes a yawn and she squirms slightly before her eyes close all the way.
Rial smiles from where he is, watching them, arms crossed over his chest. Doesn't say anything, almost afraid to break the moment.
It's pretty spaced.
At the same time, though, some of it's pretty okay, Plourr thinks. Watching Rial with her, ignoring the twinges of jealousy at how naturally good he is with her. Laughing at the terrible, indignant faces that she makes when she cries. Holding her close when she's just drifting off to sleep, making a soft noise or two, her little fists slowly coming to a rest against her captive audience's arm or shoulder. Those precious few moments every day where she isn't screaming, crying, sleeping, spitting up, or shitting, when she stares up at you with those big, wide eyes.
All of that makes nights like tonight worth it. Hopefully.
By this point, the tiny-looking princess in question has been fed, burped, and has had her diaper changed, and is resolutely resisting all efforts to be put down to sleep.
With no one to bear witness, Plourr presses a light, lingering-but-frustrated kiss to the green hat. "Shhh," she murmurs, walking with Ianna tucked against her shoulder and with a bounce in her step, "shhhh. I would really like to get two hours sleep on the night, here, so if you could just--" She turns at the window and starts pacing, prowling, back across the room again. "Oh Jesus Christ, don't you ever sleep?"
Ianna does not listen to reason.
She exhales sharply, barely resisting the urge to stop rubbing Ianna's back so that she can dig the heel of her hand into her own eyes and scream.
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"You want me to try?"
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As she turns back toward Rial and the door in the darkened nursery, she repeats, "No" less sharply, in an unspoken acknowledgment that she spoke too harshly.
"I have to be able to do this," she says, moving constantly on silent bare feet as the thin wails continue from her shoulder. "You can't always bail me out."
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There's a chair in the corner of the room. He flops into it and watches his wife silently, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"How long has she been up?"
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She realizes a second too late that she spoke too loudly; she lowers her voice as she murmurs, "Alright, alright, you're alright, princess."
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He's got his eyes closed, tired but not planning on sleeping until she quiets down again.
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It was an awful lot of shavit for such a small thing, she'd say if she were in the mood, but she's not in the mood tonight; she's in a mood. A mood that involves the need for sleep warring with her stubbornness and the aching need to be able to do this; the fear that she won't be able to always pulsing just out of her reach behind her eyes.
"I've been walking with her," she says, "I took her out on the balcony and showed her the stars, I tried the bouncing thing, I fed her, changed her, burped her, set the mobile going, wrapped her up in blankets -- hell, I even sang to her, and you know I can't hold a tune." And, more importantly, that she hates even trying.
Plourr's lips are compressed, her face already starting to take back some of the characteristic sharpness that was lost due to weight gain, and she says over the noise of the crying, "I don't know what else I'm supposed to do, except say, 'Stop crying already, goddamnit' and do a Jedi thing."
Pacing, she looks down. "Stop crying already. You're supposed to have a connection with me. Stop crying."
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"Listen," he says finally, and he thinks he might get beaten down for this but they both need sleep and this isn't helping at all. "Just let me try really quickly, Plourr, this isn't going anywhere. It's okay."
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Besides, she's kinda cute with her face all screwed up and red like that.
But the rest of her hates to hear the kid unhappy; hates that something is wrong and she doesn't seem to be able to figure out what it is or fix it.
"It's not okay," she says, but it's more distressed than angry. There's persistent, and then there's pointless, and Plourr Estillo has always prided herself on the ability to distinguish between the two. She takes the couple of steps necessary over to Rial in the armchair and she carefully passes Ianna into his arms, her mouth set in a miserable line.
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Rial just holds her though, for a moment, letting her scream all she wants. He remembers being ten, almost eleven, and holding Plourr in his arms - she'd been fussing, thinking about crying, and her mother had passed her off to him for a moment while she went to find a bottle. He'd held her carefully like she might break, and she'd thought about it for a moment before opening her mouth and yelling angrily up at him.
It's really not that different now, and he suspects she's crying just for the sake of crying. Holding her a little closer, letting her thrash against his chest, he leans down to look at her face.
"You can stop any time," he says mildly, then settles back to wait.
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She watches father and daughter quietly and, after a moment, she reaches down and gently brushes a rough-skinned thumb across Ianna's cheek. "You're perfectly fine, girl."
Gradually, the wailing diminishes into fussing, then quieter fussing. Ianna would still be crying, it seems like she indignantly would like her parents to know, but it is Very Tiring.
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Hopefully.
Whispering, trying not to disturb her, "You want to put her to bed?"
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The swap is effected as smoothly as possible, and Plourr holds her breath as Ianna opens her mouth, not sure what the fuck she'll do if Ianna starts to cry again the second that she touches her -- but it's only to give a baby-sized cough and then blink drowsily up at Mama.
Plourr's smile flashes, swift and tiny and painfully genuine, in the dim-lit room, and then she nudges Rial's shoulder with hers and levers herself up. Out the door, through the informal living area, down the hall, and disappearing into their bedroom; her feet could walk this path by themselves by now, and more or less do, in the dark.
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He pauses, a moment, just inside the door to watch them together. Sometimes he thinks he's never seen something more beautiful.
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"A real looker, you are," she murmurs, shaking her head and carefully smoothing the red down.
Ianna's eyes, half-shut, stare up at her.
"Sleep." Plourr tweaks her nose gently. "Do it, or I will take your nose as collateral."
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Rial smiles from where he is, watching them, arms crossed over his chest. Doesn't say anything, almost afraid to break the moment.
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