Page 106 of Who's Your Daddy?

“You think so?”

“Yeah.” He tilts his head so he can see Ambrose over my shoulder. “It looks like he’s following the sound...like he’s looking around for you.”

Hearing that wrecks me inside. One part of me is completely overwhelmed with joy, while the other part wants to hand him back to Dylan and pretend as if I don’t know what it feels like to hold him in my arms.

Scott returns with more than just bottles. He’s brought down the car seat and a baby carrier. “I figured if we’re going shopping, we’re gonna need this stuff.”

Dylan has learned a lot from babysitting Neymar because he spends the next few minutes sterilizing the bottles before pouring in the milk. He talks me through the whole process, but his voice is drowned out by the sloppy sounds of Ambrose sucking his fingers. Dylan warms it to the right temperature, and after testing a few drops on his wrist, he hands me the bottle.

When I move Ambrose away from my shoulder to cradle him in the crook of my arm, there’s spit everywhere. On his fingers. Down his chin. And there’s a big wet blob on my T-shirt.

“How did you produce so much saliva in such a short space of time?” I ask him.

“Get used to it, Pete,” Dylan says.

We walk back to the living room and Dylan makes a list of things we need to get while I feed Ambrose. I get a good look at him then, and yeah, he’s a really cute kid. Dylan gives me some tips on how to burp him, but that burp ends up with a quarter of what I just fed him running down my T-shirt. A wild wave from Ambrose sends a spatter of rogue, curdled milk drops into my face.

Scott finds this hilarious. He’s enjoying every moment of watching me trying not to gag at the vomit that now covers my entire right side.

Dylan helps me clean and change him before I dash upstairs to change as well. I douse myself in cologne to mask the sour milk smell that’s probably still lingering on my skin. We strap Ambrose up into the backseat and head to the store.

“Wait. I brought this along,” Scott says, stepping out of the car. He takes too much joy in tying the baby carrier around me, and the asshole has the nerve to grin at me once Ambrose is comfortably nestled inside it. “Precious.” He whips out his phone and takes a picture. “Like a momma kangaroo.”

“Fuck off.”

Dylan laughs. “Not in front of the kids, Pete.”

We take our time walking down the aisles, going through the vast array of every kind of formula and baby lotion and pacifiers and burp cloths (It looks like I’m going to need those the most).

But I learn quite quickly that time is now a luxury and should not be taken for granted. About ten minutes in, I hear the delightful sounds of what can only be bowel movements. And just like every other noise that comes out of this little person, it sounds...wet. Just a few seconds later, I get the smell that confirms the sound.

“Uh...Dyl. I think he just...let out a fresh one.”

He looks around. “I’m sure there’s a changing room somewhere.”

“Okay.” I carefully take Ambrose out of the carrier. “Do you wanna take him and—”

“No, I’m not changing him.”

“Why not? You know how to do it.” I sound like the Karate Kid, begging Mr. Miyagi to show him the ways of his craft, because I know Dylan has the wisdom and skill to perform this particular task.

“This is me giving you some tough love, Pete. You gotta learn how to do these things on your own.”

It’s clear from that statement that Dylan is going to be just as selfish as Mr. Miyagi and subject me to days of unsupervised torture before he helps with anything.

“Fine. I’ll do it myself. Wax on, wax off, motherfucker.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Nothing, Dyl.” I look at Scott. “Did you bring the backpack?”

He looks confused. “Was I supposed to?”

“Yeah! All his diapers were in there. How did you remember to bring this stupid sling but not the diapers? Where are your priorities?”

“Sorry. But look, we shouldn’t be too much longer. Just wait until you get back home.”

My first response is a scathing scowl. “Do you honestly expect me to walk around here smelling like shit...just inhaling these toxic fumes?”

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