Page 6 of A Very Grumpy Father's Day
THREE
Maddie
BIG DAD ENERGY
In the grand scheme of things, being subjected to the stubbornness, obsessive devotion, and libidinous nature of a generous, obscenely handsome husband with an impossibly fit body isn’t the worst thing anyone ever had to deal with. But no matter how much I love and appreciate Declan Cannavale and will prioritize his well-being until the end of time, he can still bite me. He can kiss my butt and blow me, and he can find my last nerve in one of those boxes in the extra bedrooms, unpack it, and then place it wherever he would like it to be placed inside this condo. Then he can calmly explain to me for the one hundredth time why he’d rather live in a home with forty-seven unpacked boxes and a tired, frustrated wife than pay someone to unpack those boxes for us.
Forty-seven unmarked, unpacked boxes that he sealed up before I had a chance to list the inventory of each box first. Forty-seven boxes that he won’t make the time to unpack himself because he wants to “do it together.” By that he means he wants me to unpack everything and tell me where to put it while he responds to emails on his laptop. Forty-seven boxes left of the hundred and three boxes we moved here with three months ago. It was his idea to buy this place when we did. We had just gotten into a nice rhythm with Ciara, and then we had to pack everything up and move. Now we’re farther away from many of our babysitter options—my parents, Mrs. Pavlovsky, Aunt Mel, Nolan and Cora. Our wonderful former nanny that even Declan liked won’t work north of Murray Hill, so we had to find someone new. And guess what?! Declan doesn’t like the new nanny.
But I can’t even stay mad at him without feeling guilty because he was so excited to buy this condo for us. He was so excited by the idea of moving into a forever home that we can grow our family in. He can’t wait to take our daughter to Central Park and the zoo, even though he hates walking and being around strangers and birds that might poop on his Italian linen shirts. Also, caged animals make him sad. But he promises he’ll be happy if it makes Ciara and our future kids happy to look at the animals in enclosures.
And this really is the perfect home now that it’s babyproofed.
At least we live closer to work and my sister’s place now.
And how can I blame my husband for having such a thick head when he has such a big heart?
But also—why should I be the one to do all the unpacking?
And how dare he kiss me like he was going to fuck me into oblivion when I was setting him up to negotiate a productive afternoon of unpacking to completion?
My knees are still weak.
“Mah mah mah mah!” Ciara says as she holds up her sippy cup.
“Good girl for drinking from your sippy cup!” I hold my hand out toward her. “You want me to take it from you now?”
She holds it up even higher, smiling big, exposing her two little teeth and the dimple she got from her daddy. “Eeeeee!”
“Yes, you want me to take the cup from you. Good girl.”
“There’s my good girls,” says Declan, in a tone that is somehow sexy and comforting at the same time. “There’s my beautiful girls.” He joins us on the rug in the living room. “Thanks for the sandwich, Cooper.” He still calls me Cooper even though I’m officially a Cannavale, and it’s one of my favorite things about him. He drags his fingertips across my upper back, and that tiny gesture alone sets off an immediate chain reaction of minor explosive sexual responses in my overstimulated body.
“You’re welcome.” I close my eyes as I inhale the scent of his fancy English body wash—amber, black pepper, ginger—and a barely detectable hint of Cannavale baby batter that should have been released between my legs twenty minutes ago.
Ciara stares up at her father, wide eyed and unsmiling as he scoops her up into his arms. “Hello, my beautiful girl. Hello, Daddy missed you. Can you sayda-da?”
I knew she was going to start crying before he picked her up. How he always misses those cues, I will never understand. But it breaks my heart every time she makes-strange with him. And I fall in love with him even more, every time I watch him reach for her despite the rejection.
“Did she have her morning nap?”
“She sure did.”
He sniffs in the general area of her bum to see if her diaper needs to be changed. It doesn’t. She just doesn’t want him to hold her right now.
“Okay, we’ll let you crawl around,” he says as he gently lowers her to the rug.
“You want to play with the stacking toys, don’t you?” I move the rainbow-colored stacking cups closer to her, and they capture her attention immediately.
I stand up next to Declan.
“Do you think she’s mad that I was out so late?” he asks in a hushed voice.
I don’t have the heart to tell him Ciara slept really well for once and probably didn’t even notice he was gone.
I was actually able to take a bath and watch a YouTube video on how to give myself an anti-aging facial massage before getting into bed and stretching my legs out—the full width of the mattress. Without touching his leg and him reading that as me wanting his penis inside of me. Without having to hear about work—about what an idiot Drucker is or how his office is always somehow too warm or too cold no matter what he’s wearing.
I love my husband more than I ever knew I could love any man, but he does not have what I would call a soothing energy. After knowing him for over three and a half years, my senses are still on high alert whenever he is near, whenever I hear his voice or read a text from him. Even when I’m exhausted and we both have baby puke on our clothes and I don’t want to talk to anyone. Even when I have forgotten that my body was made for anything other than feeding a baby, my lady parts still respond to him in ways that the rest of me can’t. Even when I am for all intents and purposes unconscious, even when the man has been driving me up the wall all day, if I hear Declan Cannavale’s voice or smell his sexy vampire scent or feel the warmth of his body in proximity to mine, my nipples respond with a fifteen-minute TED Talk on how hot his butt is.
