Page 64 of Headstrong Like Us
“Of the wall, sure.”
He shakes his head with a half-smile, then makes thecome hithergesture again. “Come on.”
“You’re positive you want to hold him?” I lower my voice as the baby stretches a tiny arm and smacks his lips. “He’s been here less than 48-hours, and you’ve already been peed and spit up on. There’s only one more box to tick off, man, and I don’t know if you can handle projectile poop.”
“I can handle some baby shit,” Farrow says, his eyes narrowing on my smile. “You’re loving this.”
I’m better than Farrow at plenty of things. But I recognize he has me beat in a lot of areas too. So I can’t deny that havingmileson him in thekid department feels pretty damn good.
Especially since he was a Med-Peds first-year intern before quitting his residency.Pedsstanding forpediatrics.
But so far, I’ve excelled more than him.
Changing diapers, bottle-feeding and burping an infant—I didn’t even need to use YouTube or phone a friend. I’m the big older brother to a sister almost ten-years younger than me. Not to mention all the other kids in my family.
It taught me a ton.
“I’m soaking it in,” I admit.
Gloating about my knowledge lightens the situation. The situation being that the baby loves metoo much.
He’s terrified of not being in my arms. It doesn’t matter if I pass him over to Farrow or place him in the crib. His reaction is the same. Titanic tears and banshee wails.
And I get that Farrow is worried I’m going to be a walking zombie if I take on the full load of this kid. He didn’t accept the guardianship just to saddle me with all the weight.
“We can try again,” I tell Farrow on my way towards him. Slowly, I peel the baby off my chest. His tiny hand grips my thumb. Clinging.
Farrow stands fully and takes the baby with tender, gentle force. As soon as he’s in my fiancé’s arms, he expels the highest,mightiestcry.
Jesus.
He has some epic lungs on him. “Maybe he’ll be a swimmer,” I say, positive thinking and all that.
Farrow tucks the fussing baby to his tattooed chest. Just like I had him against mine. To the baby, he whispers, “Wolf scout thinks you’ll be a swimmer, little man.”
I smile.
Despite his easygoing nature, Farrow wears this intense concentration. He sweeps his hand soothingly over the baby’s back and sways melodically from side to side.
I don’t know who I’m smiling at anymore. Farrow, or Farrow holding the baby, or just the baby—let’s go withjustthe baby.
He’s a cute tiny thing. Like major levels of cuteness. He has light-brown wispy hair on a mostly baldhead, rosy chubby cheeks against pale skin, and he’s warm in a gray koala-hooded onesie.
Farrow lifts the hood, and the little animal ears stick up.
He unleashes apiercingcry.
I cringe. “Christ, man.” That one blew out an eardrum. He’s not hungry or in need of a diaper change. We’ve already checked every damn thing. He’s just adjusting.
Farrow cups the back of the baby’s head. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he whispers to him.
At first, we thought Farrow’s plethora of tattoos freaked out the kid. But my parents tried to hold him and they were met with the same glass-shattering scream.
“Maybe something in here can help.” I hike over the air mattress and dig through the mountain of boxes and shopping bags: perks of being the heir to Hale Co.—a literal baby product company.
This little guy has been in our lives for less than 48-hours, and my family already went overboard.
I swear my dad gave us every item in stock. And my Aunt Rose brought over the whole new Calloway Couture Babies summer collection.
