At one group, Cecily told us that lately all she wanted was some time each day to play her flute, but she couldn’t get it. She didn’t know why she couldn’t, when babies sleep so much; the hours just slipped away. Sometimes she looked at her flute in its case and then down at her son cooing in her arms and she found herself digging her fingernails into her palms until it hurt. She felt such anger toward him in these moments, and how terrible it felt, how dangerous, to be angry at this child she loved so much.
