No regrets.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Sadie
The groceries are starting to back up at the checkout, quicker than I can pack them. Disposable nappies and bread and laundry tablets mush up next to each other, and I struggle to spread them out because the cashier is relentless in swiping everything through. Leo’s meant to be helping. I look up, and, surprise surprise, my husband is going gooey over our daughter in her trolley cot, almost nose to nose with her. His face is as soft as anything as he murmurs some sweet ramblings about how adorable she is, and kisses her cheek as she wriggles peaceably, waking up.
I roll my eyes and laugh. “Come on, Leo, be helpful,” I admonish him, not really meaning it. I love to see him loving on Rhiannon. She’s only a couple of weeks old, but he’s already completely owning daddyhood. He spends all his time just being with her, watching over her, ready every time she makes the slightest noise. He changes nappies with nary a complaint, and gets up with me every time I need to feed her overnight. I’ve been able to express some milk, as I think it’s important for himto have that bonding time with her too while feeding, but we supplement with formula too, becausefedis best, and I will die on that hill.
He’s everything a papa bear should be, and I only hope I live up to his example as her mother.
She holds both our hearts in her teeny tiny hands, the love we feel for her indescribably powerful, and I have never been happier. We’re both beyond exhausted, some days barely dragging our exhausted arses through each hour, but it’s all made worthwhile when we gaze down at her, asleep in our arms or in her crib, her little mouth moving now and again. And when she yawns, I can hardly repress my squee noises.
And it’s not just us; the gang all dote on her. Rhiannon has storybooks aplenty thanks to her Auntie Em, and we read them to her every night, but it’s the one her Uncle Eli drew for her about the golden retriever and the black cat that seems to soothe her the most when she’s fussy. Auntie Liaden has given us all sorts of classical music to play to her, and my girl seems to like Mozart a lot, but if she won’t stop crying, she seems to respond best to System of a Down. That’s our girl. And Uncle Dean is an absolute god at getting her to fall asleep on his shoulder.
Even Gary is mesmerised, loving to watch her and be near her, and only swearing quietly these days. Unless Rhiannon is screaming, in which case he continues to flap violently and ask, “WHAT THE FUCK?!”
Rhiannon has been very good during our shopping trip, sleeping peacefully in spite of all the noise, and she is indeedsoadorable, but it’s time to pack up and pay, and my husband is too smitten to do a damn thing.
“Dude,” I call, laughing at Leo quite openly now.
Leo manages to tear his eyes away from her long enough to give me a sheepish grin. “Sorry. But she’stoo cute…”
“And these loaves of bread aretoo far out of the shopping bag,” I quip, grinning back.
The cashier chuckles at us both. “You’re lucky, love. My Darren wasn’t interested until our lot were out of nappies.”
I look at my man fondly, reminded again how lucky I am that he’s not that kind of twat.
Eventually,witha little more engagement from Leo, the goods are packed and paid for, and we’re on the way home.
The house is a total mess, with toys and books and blankets strewn everywhere, but the two of us are at least presentable; we take it in turns minding the baby so the other can shower. Eli kindly filled our freezer with home cooked meals that just need to be defrosted and then cooked through, so we’re eating well. Every single member of our family is happy to swoop in and help in any way they can, whether that’s taking Rhiannon off our hands after a bad night so we can get a couple of hours of sleep or helping us with household chores so the place doesn’t crumble around our ears while we get used to parenting.
We really are ludicrously lucky.
I start taking the laundry off the clothes horse, folding bib after bib and blanket after blanket, and so many babygros. I love the one she has on at the moment, with Team Leo emblazoned on the front just like on the parlour t-shirts. Em had that made, and I still chuckle whenever I see it.
And Leo hand washes it every time it gets dirty so she can wear it again sooner.
“...and then we print the picture on a special type of paper, right, and place it where the client wants the tattoo to be. And then we - ”
“Seriously?” I laugh.
Leo grins at me, cradling Rhiannon in his arms. She’s looking up at him, enraptured. “Hey, she asked.”
“Our two week old daughter asked you how to do a tattoo?”
“Clear as day.” He kisses where my neck meets my shoulder, and fuck me, I can’twaitto be given the all clear to resume having riotous sex in a few weeks. Yes, I’m tired, and sore, and trying to get used to my new body now it’s just mine again, but Leo’s hot, and Mummy has needs. “Shall I take her?”
“Nah, I’m good.”
He deftly fishes his phone out of his pocket. “Forgot to show you this one from while you were getting dressed this morning.” He flicks to a selfie of him and Rhiannon. She’s crying, and he’s imitating her face. It’s cute as fuck. “Reckon I can post it on the Wishbone Instagram?” His eyes communicate apretty please.
“No,” I say, tapping his phone holding arm. “People come to our Insta to seetattoos, not babies. I’m not going to start mommyjacking everything, and you’re not going to do any daddyjackinganything, got it?”
He snorts with mirth.
“Yeah, dickhead, I heard it.” I giggle, shaking my head. “God, ‘daddyjacking’ sounds so dirty.”
