By “hateful,” what Jane meant was this: There were moments when she hated practically everything. She hated how she looked and how she felt. She hated women whose breasts didn’t ache and women who still fit into their clothes. She hated how oily her skin became and hated the pimples that appeared for the first time since adolescence. But it was the lack of sleep that raised her ire most of all, and consequently, nothing irritated her more than hearing stories of other mothers whose infants slept through the night within weeks of leaving the hospital. In fact, she hated everyone who had the opportunity to sleep more than three hours at a stretch, and there were times, it seemed, that she even hated me for my role in all this. After all, I couldn’t breast-feed, and because of my long hours at the law firm, I had no choice but to sleep in the guest room occasionally so I could function at the office the next day. Though I’m certain that she understood this intellectually, it often didn’t seem that way.  “Good morning,” I might say when I saw her staggering into the kitchen. “How did the baby sleep?”