I whisper, “Do you guys have a name?”
“Maybe?” Patrick finally looks up and checks with Katrina. “We talked about it a bit. Thomas? Tommy?”
“Yes,” Katrina agrees. “A good ol’ Irish name.”
“Middle name Daniels?” he adds.
Katrina nods again.
It takes me a minute to reply, “To honor Daniella.”
After we’ve all sat silently for a bit, I can tell Katrina is getting a bit itchy, so I gently scoop baby Tommy from my friend and hand him over.
“Mommy has priority now. She’s been patient enough.”
My heart sinks after I’ve parked in the driveway and stepped inside Patrick and Katrina’s house.
I call RobBob. “I’m going to need some help.”
“Heya!” he says. “Little baby is all good, yes?”
“Little baby is perfect. A boy named Tommy.” My smile surely comes through the call. “Yeah, but the house is not good.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m standing in what is obviously meant to be the nursery, but it’s basically barren, save for a few unopened boxes. No crib set up. Noclothes, diapers. Hang on.” I wander around the house and finally hit the jackpot in the garage. Well, kind of a sad jackpot really. All of my packages are there, but I don’t see much more. “I’ve found where they’ve kept gifts, shipments. But it’s just boxes everywhere.”
He gets it. “They were scared.”
“Yes. Terrified. That’s why Patrick gave me the keys.” I sigh. “RobBob, they didn’t even buy a crib.”
“I’ll get there ASAP.”
RobBob and I share a quick bear hug when he arrives, but we’re both on the move. I do have to give him a wink because he’s as cute as ever with his wildly thick, wavy brown hair and T-shirt that sculpts over his jacked arms. I hand him Patrick’s car keys and send him off to get a crib, a mattress, sheets, and car seat, then to the police station to get the car seat securely installed. Per my research, car seats need to be really smashed into the back seat—not just set in place and strapped in with a seat belt—and we’re not cutting corners with anything like this. I send him links to what seems to be the best, and then I also send him a link to a furniture store that has a really sweet rocking chair.
While he’s gone, I rip open boxes, unpacking the stuff I sent. Like, the changing station with diapers and wipes, the way overpriced diaper-disposal thing, not to mention the pile of clothes that might get them through the next year. I set down the rug and wait, still a bit dizzy from the past day.
When RobBob returns with the haul of stuff, we spend hours making the nursery into the most cozy, cuddly, comforting space.
He collapses on the living room couch. “Not sure I ever want a kid now. This is too much work.” His smile tells otherwise.
I’m about to agree, but instead, I stumble into Tommy’s new room and sit in the rocking recliner. It’s a great way to fall asleep.
The next day, RobBob drives to the hospital to pick up the new trio, and we get to welcome them home.
Given Patrick and Katrina’s emotional reaction to the nursery setup, we did good. I love me some happy tears. Katrina sits in the rocking chair with Tommy, and her comfort is immediate.
After some time, I ask her, “Can we switch out? Just for a short moment?”
She nods.
So, before I leave, I am graced with rocking and snuggling this newborn as long as I want, and I spend a blissful hour with him. I love that newborns sleep for ages, and it’s only when I have to leave to catch my flight that I part with Tommy.
“Thank you,” I say to Katrina and to Patrick.
“We got through this because of you,” she says.
“You got through this because you’re a rock star,” I tell her.
