This is all my fault, I berated myself as I held my wailing newborn, Micah, tight against me in the rocker. Beside me, my two-year-old son, MJ, was crying nearly as hard. Only my husband, Myron, was calm.
“The baby is fine, Tiera,” he said. I could barely hear him over the bed-lam. “Everything is going to be fine.”
No, it wasn’t. Nothing was going right. I’d been struggling ever since we’d come home from the hospital three weeks earlier. My every attempt to get things under control only seemed to make things worse. Like giving in to MJ’s repeated requests to hold his baby brother on his own. Seconds later, the baby had slipped from his grasp, landing hard on the bed. Hence the uproar.
I slowed the rocker,…
