“For what?”
“For being exactly what I need right now.”
“Always, sweetheart.” He kissed my forehead. “And no thanks needed. You just did a miracle twice over. The least I can do is help you get clean.”
#
Casimir
I stood in the bathroom, my newborn twins cradled against my bare chest, feeling simultaneously like the most powerful and most vulnerable man in existence. Their tiny bodies weighed almost nothing, yet the responsibility they represented was as heavy as mountains. How had my heart already expanded so rapidly to encompass these two perfect beings?
Steam clung to the mirrors from the warm water I’d prepared. I’d never felt less in control of a situation, even as I methodically worked through the steps I’d researched over the past months.
“Water temperature: 100.2 degrees Fahrenheit. Optimal for newborn skin sensitivity.” I dipped my elbow into the shallow basin I’d filled. Years of training had taught me to verbalize processes during stressful situations, and this qualified as the most stressful situation of my entire existence.
My hands were too large, too rough, for this delicate work. One wrong move, one miscalculation in the pressure of my fingers, and I could hurt them.
Completely unacceptable.
Settling my son on the nest of towels I’d created next to me on the wide vanity, I lowered our daughter into the water first. Her eyes, still unfocused, drifted as I supported her head with one hand, using the other to gently rinse her skin. Unlike her brother, she remained calm, only occasionally flexing her tiny fingers as if testing her newfound independence from the womb.
“That’s it,” I whispered, surprised by the softness in my voice. “You’re doing extremely well.”
After diapering and wrapping her in a fresh towel, I turned to her brother. His face was scrunched, red, and clearly displeased with the world he’d recently entered. As I lowered him into the water, he let out a wail that could have raised the cockatrice I’d killed last week.
I worked quickly while taking care to clean every delicate fold of skin, trying to minimize his distress, yet he continued his vocal protest.
“I understand your complaint,” I said over his ire, “but this is a necessary hygiene protocol.”
He did not find this reasoning compelling and responded by crying louder, his tiny fists clenched in outrage, as I lifted him from the water.
After drying and diapering him, I wrapped him in the same towel as his sister, thinking he might find comfort next to his womb-mate, but he continued to wail. Frustrated by my lack of ability to calm him, I reached for the swaddles, hoping that would soothe him.
“This is a premium cotton-bamboo blend,” I explained. “Breathable yet insulating, with optimal stretch factors for secure swaddling without restricting circulation.”
He screamed louder, clearly unimpressed by my fabric selection process.
Our daughter, meanwhile, accepted her swaddle with the serene dignity of a queen receiving her robes. Her eyes drifted closed, her tiny rosebud mouth slightly open.
“At least one of you appreciates quality,” I muttered, securing the final fold.
Turning their towel nest to face the wall, I stripped out of my stained boxers and quickly cleaned myself up, then all but jumped into fresh boxers before picking them up again. The contact sent a wave of protectiveness through me so fierce, it almost hurt.
I would tear apart any threat to these two with my bare hands. I would rewrite the laws of nature itself if it meant keeping them safe. I would go towarfor them.
Returning to our bedroom, I bounced slightly, gratified that our son’s cries lessened at the motion. Then Seri’s bathroom door opened, and Zane carried her out like a bride. She looked even more exhausted now. Iknewit was too soon for a shower, but she’d insisted.
“The patient has been properly dried and attired in a comfy post-delivery garment,” Zane announced as he placed our wife on our bed, arranging pillows behind her back.
Emotion flooded through me at the sight of her. My beloved, who had just performed a miracle right before my eyes.
“I see Cas has been playing nanny with the babies,” he added with a smirk, but his eyes were soft as they landed on the bundles in my arms.
“I’ve explained to our son that the swaddling technique I’ve employed is based on extensive research of both traditional methods and modern pediatric recommendations. He seems unconvinced,” I said, unable to keep the defensive note from my voice. “He also remains vocal in his critique about the fabric’s efficacy despite my detailed briefing of its benefits.”
As if on cue, our son let out another impressive wail.
“I believe he finds my methodology lacking,” I admitted, looking down at his red face. “However, I assure you I’ve followed all recommended protocols to the letter, Seri!”
