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You were exhausted. Your eyelids continuously drooped as you watched your little one suckle at your breast. It hurt immensely to feed your child. No one had prepared you for that. As your milk was still coming in and your child was still unable to extract a decent amount, constantly spitting during your let down phases, you found yourself swollen and heavy with yet extracted milk, nipples angered by the constant attention, and, more than anything, frustrated. You were gripping your baby a little tighter, holding her to your chest hoping the skin to skin would help to sooth your nerves. But it wasn’t. You found yourself crying into your babies thin tufts of hair.
Merlin came into the living room where you sat, bowls of pasta in hand. “Dinner’s ready, love. You need to eat to keep up your strength.”
Setting the bowls on the table, he turned and really looked at you for the first time since entering the room. Your tears nearly broke him.
“Y/N, what’s wrong, love?” he asked, kneeling down in front of you, placing his hands on your knees.
You began shaking as you slowly rocked your baby and cried to him, “I’m just no good at this. I’m trying and trying and she just won’t eat right. And I can’t get all the milk out. And she won’t wake up for meals. And I can’t–”
“Whoa, slow down there,” Merlin said, slowly caressing your thighs to sooth you. “You are doing amazing, darling. You both are just learning each other and that takes time. But look how you hold her? Look how much you love her? She won’t let herself starve and you won’t let her go without.”
You held your husband’s eyes to gauge the sincerity of his words. He was beaming at you, pride and contentment reading on his face. You took a deep breath and returned your attention to your daughter.
“You’re right, Hamish. I can do this.”
“Not you ‘can do this’ You are doing thing,” he patted your knee for emphasis. “Now here, give her to me.” His hands left your knees to reach out for your child.
“But she hasn’t eaten enough yet,” you protested, still clinging to your child a little too tightly. She was sound asleep on your chest, completely uninterested in the breast you had previously been rubbing all over her cheek and mouth to get her to eat.
“It’ll be fine. You need to sleep.” He gently peeled your hands off your child and took her from you, cradling her in the crook of his arms. “Seriously, go, my love. A calm, well-rested mother is of much better use to our child than few tablespoons of milk at the moment.”
You stood at his command, grabbed your bowl of pasta, and made up the stairs towards your bedroom. But you stopped at the top of the stairs when you heard the soft sounds of Hamish speaking to your child. You turned around and sat on the top of the stairs, just out of view.
Hamish had taken your seat on the couch, holding his daughter close to his chest, rocking her and patting his back with his unoccupied hand. Such a little thing your daughter was in contrast to his strong shoulders and masculine hands. But every part of his movements was gentle and caring. He eased into this role as he eased into all things in life. He was the definition of kindness and you found yourself completely in love with the man you married, more than you could possibly convey.
“Hello there, Princess,” he said quietly, close to his daughter’s ears. “You have an amazing mother there, you know. Working so hard to make food for you, to keep you clean and happy and healthy. You are very lucky to have her.” He laughed, “I’m very lucky to have her too. And now we have you.” He patted the small bundle’s nose with his index finger, “Thank you for joining our family, little one.”
You smiled, moved by your husband’s praise, warmed by his clear affection for his child. And that was how you fell asleep, head against the wall of the stairwell, pasta growing cold beside you, listening to your husband softly comfort the sleeping infant in his arms.