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256 pages, Hardcover
Published April 25, 2023
Maisie sighed. "Tantrums," she said as though exhaling a cigarette. The baby (Esme!) in Maisie's large belly moved precipitously, like a fish coming to attention, as if to say, Tantrums? Did someone say tantrums? and was eager to discuss.
The question made Maisie weary. It wasn't that she generally minded talking about kids, but most of the time, while largely pregnant or largely preoccupied with caretaking, she wanted to talk about something surprising or nothing at all. Something like the uncontacted tribe. But, as for the kids: Some days were fine, and it was easy to think that having small children was a plain and simple treasure of explosive love, pieces of your married hearts running around in the world, full of hope and wonderment, days brimming with happy chaos and burgeoning growth, a cuckoo house full of surprise, full of tumult. Some small moments made up for all the monotony and aggravation, even all the anxiety over things like money, like the time when she looked quietly around the corner into the living room and Harriet was sitting next to Xavier, smoothing his hair down tenderly, admiring him as he looked at a book. She leaned close to him on the sofa, looking at the book he was reading. He looked up at her gently, his face with a sweet smile.
"Want me to read to you?" he asked her.
She nodded. Xavier raised his arm up like a little man and put his arm around her as she wriggled in close to him. The next time Maisie looked, Romeo was out there, too, large on Harriet's little lap.
It was slow, very slow, very mundane but also thrilling, watching toddlers toddle through the house, watching a baby try to fit a round peg into a square, the hilarious expressions at trying new foods.
Other days were not so full of warm calmness. Other days, it was as if Maisie saw nothing more than the shrill screaming coming out of Harriet's fanatical face for a full-on-forty-minute tantrum. She was like an egomaniacal starlet who was losing her mind, headed toward sedation or an overdose. Harriet might screech and scream the same type of thing over and over, oddly reminiscent of the provocative bad boyfriends of Maisie's past: "You're making me not know what I'm thinking! You're making me forget!" lying on the floor and pinwheeling in circles with kicking legs, the terrible stuttered breathing as if she's about to gag, her little red face screaming: "You know what I'm talking about! You're just not saying you know!" Maisie might think, If I was a Salem Puritan, I would think this child was possessed as Harriet flails uncontrollably on the floor, flopping around, almost convulsing. In her more adult moments, Maisie was aware that it was a very fine line between being very funny and very heartbreaking (a young girl distraught and crying!) and so downright aggravating that Maisie sometimes had to suppress the urge to kick her daughter as she walked around her.