Page 28 of Reindeer in the Headlights
He’d had some contractions, but I only knew because he’d mentioned that he was getting one and then kept his eyes closed through it. This was the first one where he made any noise.
From that one on, they got worse and worse. I offered to call the midwife multiple times, and finally, he caved.
Thankfully, she was close by. By the time she finally walked in the door, Wyndham was begging to push. I didn’t understand that, the asking, but the midwife seemed to think it was pretty normal and said, “Just a minute,” as if they could stop it. Or maybe they could. It was all so much, so fast.
He held onto my arm, gripping it tightly as the midwife guided him through his pushing. The entire time, I gave him the best support I could, telling him how proud I was, wiping the sweat from his brow, not complaining as my arm felt like it was being torn from me. Because even if he did tear it off, it was worth it if it gave him any comfort.
And then a scream rippled through the air, only this time it wasn’t my mate. It was the cry of our newborn son.
The midwife had me help cut the umbilical cord, and then she settled him onto my mate’s chest for his first meal.
“He’s so perfect,” Wyndham whispered.
I settled myself beside them on the bed. “So perfect. Thank you for making me a dad, omega mine.”
“No, thank you, alpha mine. Thank you.”
17
WYNDHAM
I sniffed under my arms because I couldn’t remember the last time I’d showered. Gross. Soap and water had not touched my skin in a while, but my sleep-deprived brain couldn’t process exactly how many hours it’d been.
Wilder was over my shoulder, and I was pacing the floor, begging the universe to let my little boy sleep. For the past however many hours it’d been, my son had been wide awake and crying. I’d tried swaying and bouncing and then singing, but he cried harder at my warbling.
Now we just paced, and he’d quietened, but whenever I tried to put him in the crib, he started crying again.
The first night he wouldn’t stop crying, we’d raced him to the emergency department of the closest hospital. And as soon as we arrived, the sobbing stopped, and Wilder took an interest in the ER and the staff. The nurses and doctors gave us what Ambrose said was the New Parents Speech after they checked Wilder out. And that speech could be summarized in two words. “Babies cry.”
Wilder was an expert in crying at night and during the day.
“Come on, sweetheart, don’t you want to take a nap? For an hour or fifteen minutes? I’m not picky.” But my son responded by howling louder.
“Do you want me to take over?” Ambrose appeared in the bedroom doorway looking as bedraggled as I felt.
Another cry joined Wilder’s. Tinsel was having a hard time adjusting to not being one of the youngest babies in the house. He and his sister had destroyed our doormats, stolen tissues out of the trash and tossed them around the cabin, and demanded we pick them up when we were holding the baby.
There was a crash from the kitchen, and I groaned. Mistletoe was nowhere in sight, and she had to be up to mischief. That was probably a better name for her than her current one.
“I’ll get it.” Ambrose put a hand on my shoulder as he stumbled toward the kitchen.
Before Wilder’s birth, we’d assumed as he was a shifter, he’d cope with the lack of sleep better than I would. But we were so wrong. He and his reindeer were as exhausted as I was.
I stared at his back as he disappeared through the doorway. His shirt was on backward, but because we were so lacking in sleep, him being dressed and upright was a win.
“What are you up to, little girl?” He strode into the bedroom holding Mistletoe.
“Don’t tell me what she did.” I didn’t want to know what disaster was waiting for me when I went into the kitchen. Yesterday she got into the diaper bag, and those diapers were no more.
Tinsel was clawing at my leg, but my mate scooped him up and gave them both a talking-to, not that they understood or that it would do any good. They’d been like this since Wilder was born. Sibling jealousy wasn’t just for humans and shifters.
Wilder’s crying became shriller. The books we’d memorized had stated there were five different types of cries. They were hungry, tired, uncomfortable, overstimulated, and something else my tired brain couldn’t recall. All the cries sounded the same.
“Are you hungry?” Ambrose shouted from the kitchen. “We have bread and peanut butter and not much else.”
After a short lull, Tinsel joined in Wilder’s crying, and Mistletoe, not wanting to be left out, howled along with them. Gods, I wanted to weep too.
A knock at the door paused the crying. Ambrose and I shared a glance. Whoever it was, would be walking into the midst of chaos.
