Shit. How has it been that long?
Unlike those stressful days in January, this time, Junior crawls around the house, communicates with me through sounds, gestures, and faces, and we end up having the best time.
When he poops right after dinner, though? It’s unbelievably vile. I didn’t even know a kid that small could produce such an abominable stench. I don’t know if it’s the regular food that he’s eating now or what, but I almost vomit.
“What the fuck, man? Are you trying to kill me?” I ask, but the little jerk keeps smiling and babbling like he did this great thing.
I immediately go to change him on the couch, but notice that it’s stained from the last time I fucked Rebel on it. And I’m not talking about the coffee.
Pride surges through me when I see the evidence of our lovemaking, but it is dampened by the fact that I can’t exchange a conspiratorial glance with my wife.
“I’m not changing you here. I’ll just give you your bath now.”
My shirt is soaked by the time Junior's clean again.
“Giving you a bath is like wrangling a small, energetic animal that’s also extremely fragile,” I tell him as I put a clean diaper on him.
I take a deep sniff of his PJs before dressing him. No idea why. Maybe I needed the nice smell after what he’s put me through with his shit.
“I borrowed your cousin Ryder’s old crib from Angie. Your stepmom insisted we put it in the guest room, since you’re bigenough now. I guess she’s right. I had to go back and get a baby monitor from Angie as well, so that I’ll be able to hear you.”
As I watch him take in his surroundings with his mother’s big, uncertain eyes, I’m tempted to take him into our bed, only until he drifts off to sleep. He doesn’t know this room.
Then I remember our bedroom smells like cigarettes, and the sheets are crusty and disgusting. I’m trying to make a point to Rebel by refusing to change them, but she still isn’t getting it. This is our home, and she has to learn to take care of certain things.
“Sorry, buddy,” I tell Junior, and he smiles at me.
I sit on the floor next to the crib until he falls asleep. I stroke his little forehead for a long time afterwards, remembering how much smaller it used to be against my hand.
Chapter 22
Slim
The next morning, Junior’s babbling through the baby monitor wakes me up at 7 AM.
Ma ma ma ma.
Is he asking for her?
Bell is in the bed next to me, dead to the world, still wearing her makeup from last night and reeking of cigarettes and booze. I didn’t even hear her come in last night.
I briefly wonder what she was up to after I left, but shelve that thought for another time.
“Can’t remember the last time I was up this early,” I tell Junior as I open the door, to his great delight. “Yeah, yeah, I’m happy to see you too. But maybe I’d be happier at 9?”
Okay. What now? Diaper. “You can stay in your PJs, right?”
“Ma ma ma,” he tells me.
“Da-da. Daddy. That’s what you should be saying. Daa-ddyyy. Da-da.”
Nothing.
“Breakfast. Breakfast. I ain’t making muffins at this hour, fuck that recipe. Can you have eggs?” I ask him once we’re in the kitchen. “Let’s ask Mommy.”
“Ma ma ma!” He exclaims enthusiastically while I type.
My phone dings a few minutes later. “Mommy said yes! High five!”
