It really is. I’d debated going with a white crib, but I’m so glad I picked this bleached wood one instead. I’d had a vision for this nursery, and after all our hard work this afternoon it’s coming together just as I’d hoped. Okay, fine. Noah’s hard work and my supervision–but good luck getting him to let me lift a finger.
We both take a minute to look around the room; at the little bookcase in the corner, already filled with the collection of books that Piper’s been gifting me almost weekly; at the white chest of drawers with wooden knobs, and the changing pad on top printed with little rainbow colored fish; at the rattan hanging lamp and the little rustic wooden stool sitting beside where the rocking chair will go just as soon as it arrives. There’s a collection of tiny onesies, freshly washed and folded in the closet, and the crib bedding is just finishing up in the dryer.
It’s really all coming together.
It’s reallyreal.
I clap my hands with joy.
Our baby is going to sleep here.
“Thank you, Noah, I love it,” I say with sincerity.
He smiles and nods. “I do too.” There’s humor in his voice when a moment later he continues, “I guess ‘beachy boho’ was the right call after all.”
I give him a light shove to the chest. The hard, defined, muscly chest. “Don’t make fun of me–it’s totally a style.”
“If you say so,” he teases, and his smile transforms into a full-on grin.
Gah! Dimples!
“I do,” I whisper, suddenly breathless. His delight at this moment is utterly contagious and I grin back at him. I’m not sure how long we stand there, in the middle of our child’s bedroom, just staring at each other with those big goofy smiles. After a time, though, his expression changes. The light in his eyes softens into something else, and I realize … it'sjoy. Pure, radiant happiness rolls off of Noah in waves. It shines from his face, and it’s so raw, so unlike anything I’ve ever seen from him before, that I suck in a breath. It hisses through my teeth and I hold it, unable to deal with the emotion that he’s projecting or the answering feelings that are rising up in my chest.
I break eye contact, spinning around and stepping up to the crib. I run a hand along the smooth wood edge of it, trying to collect myself. I’m not this sappy girl. I’m not soft and I don’t get emotional.
It’s hormones, just hormones.
AndI’mnot the one bringing about these feelings in him either, I remind myself,the baby is. It’s all about the baby.
Noah clears his throat and I can feel the heat of his body as he moves in behind me. His scent surrounds me, and damn me, but I want him to reach his arms out and wrap me up in his embrace. I want him to press against my backside and cage me in against the crib.
But he doesn’t.
And I know it’s for the best.
“Have you given much thought to my suggestion?” his voice is low and gravelly.
I shake my head to clear it a little. “Uhm … which one?”
“The one about me moving in here for a few weeks after the baby’s born.”
Right. That.
I know Noah’s planning on putting in for some paternity leave, and he’d asked me to consider letting him stay here with me, on the couch, to help out once the baby comes. I’m concerned that living with him, even temporarily, will only serve to blur the lines between us even further. I’m already so confused, but I’m inclined to allow it. I know I’ll need the help, and I don’t want him to miss out on anything. I want him to have equal time to bond with our child, and since I’m hoping to breastfeed, it's likely there won’t be any sleepovers happening at Daddy’s house for the foreseeable future.
“Okay,” I whisper.
And then his armsdocome around me. My heart skips and dances. He squeezes me tight and I can tell he’s pleased with my answer.
“Yeah?”
I lean back against his chest and let out a contented sigh.
I’m so screwed.
“Yeah.”
???
