I unsnap his pajamas and remove his diaper.
It’s dry. If it wasn’t his diaper—
A stream of urine hits me square in the chest.
“Gah.” I fumble to use his diaper to catch the stream, not nearly fast enough. “Wait wait wait.”
He does not wait.
Oliver gives a single bark at my feet then glares up at me.
Crying infant, barking dog, and me, covered in fluids.
It’s a lot.
“You couldn’t have hit your target better if you’d aimed,” I say.
He stops crying and looks in my general direction with the most intense stare. It’s unlikely he can actually make out much more than a blob. Babies are nearsighted.
I smile and move closer in the hope he can focus on my face. “No one mentioned I’d need to incorporate defensive maneuvers during diaper changes. I’ll do better next time.”
He remains quiet. Watching.
I change his diaper, then tug my shirt off and drop it and his wet pajamas on top of the diaper pail. Wet wipes do the job to clean us both, though now I smell baby fresh.
He screws up his face, his cry no longer pitiful but a blazingly angry vibrato. I dry him, check his umbilical stump, search for anything that might be poking him.
“What’s wrong?” It’s instinct to ask the question aloud. It’s not as though he can answer me.
He stops crying.
And I have no idea why. What do I put on his spreadsheet?
Moments later, he juts out his bottom lip and takes a deep breath, preparing to squall.
“What do you need?” I ask pointlessly.
He settles, his expression smoothing out.
Wait—Surely not. I eye him cautiously.
He puckers up, his chin wobbling. Before he can release another wail, I speak again. “Ian, do you like my voice? You want me to talk to you?” The effect is immediate. The fury drains out of him as if someone has turned a dial. His tiny face smooths, his fists uncurling by degrees while he studies me with grave concentration.
I’ve lectured to halls full of undergraduates. I’ve defended research before committees that seemed determined todismantle every claim I made. None of that has ever left me feeling as exposed as I feel now, standing here in the soft light of the nursery with my shirt discarded and my newborn son evaluating the sound of my voice.
“Good,” I continue carefully. “I can talk.”
Oliver settles at my feet with a quiet huff, apparently satisfied that the crisis has been averted.
“Don’t pretend you knew what he needed any more than I did,” I say dryly.
Oliver rolls his eyes.
I look back at Ian’s little face and speak in a conspiratorial tone. “Our dog is much smarter than people think he is.”
My son blinks up at me.
“My name is Henry, by the way.” I clear my throat. “But you’ll call me Dad.”
