Tatum sits sobbing in the bed, her eyes locked on mine as I hold the little screaming bundle in my arms. I look down at my sweet, perfect, and very loud son, Maxwell Mason. Tatum rubs her eyes, her chest heaving up and down, and I can’t help but laugh. I know it’s an awful thing to do, especially considering the circumstances, but I can’t help it. Tatum looks beautiful and exhausted. “Babe, go to sleep.” I insist and she shakes her head no.“Why won’t he sleep?” she blubbers. “I am so tired,”“Tater tot.” I say firmly, “Then go to sleep. I’ve got him. He is okay. He just needs a change and a bottle.”“But I should be able to nurse him,” she sobs, looking at her hands in her lap.“Ah.” I sigh. So that’s the actual issue. Tatum’s milk supply has yet to come in and it is the third week. My poor sweet mate wanted nothing more than to be a mother and be a perfect one. And now that she has a baby, she feels like she isn’t enough because she can’t breastfeed him. “Look at me,” I say, walki
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