Chapter 18 Brody
By the time I entered the kitchen, Clark was already rummaging through the fridge, babbling excitedly about dinosaur nuggets and "marsh-pillow fluff." I leaned against the doorframe for a moment, just drinking in the unbearably domestic scene.
He gestured animatedly, a carton of eggs in one hand and a jar of peanut butter in the other. Grinning to myself, I ambled into the fray, deftly dodging flailing limbs and flying condiments.
"Woah there," I laughed, catching Clark around the waist mid-whirl. "Let's put the brakes on the omelette flambée, huh?"
Clark pouted up at me, clearly not appreciating the interruption to his culinary genius. "But you said I could be your helper."
"And you will be, sweetheart, I promise." I booped his nose. "But Daddy needs to make sure you don’t accidentally burn the house down in the process, yeah?"
Deflating a bit, he nodded, relinquishing his ill-gotten ingredients with only minor grumbling. "Okay. But I still wanna help mix stuff."
"Deal. But first things first - can't have any naked faces in the kitchen. That's just asking for trouble."
And with a sly grin, I whipped the binky from my pocket and held it up triumphantly, delighting in the way Clark's eyes went wide.
"My binky!" he squealed, making grabby hands. "Where'd you find it? I've been looking all over!"
"Daddy has his ways, little one. But you gotta promise to be on your very best behavior during dinner prep. No more Tasmanian devil impersonations, capiche?"
When he nodded, I guided it to his eager lips. He latched on with a blissful sigh, eyes slipping shut in contentment.
"Alright," I said, giving his ass a gentle pat. "Let's get this operation underway before your tummy tries to stage a mutiny."
The operation, as it turned out, entailed far more giggling and flinging of ingredients than actual cooking. He took his duties as sous chef very seriously, insisting on tasting every component to ensure optimal "nummy factor." This mainly involved him sticking a finger directly into whatever bowl or pan was closest and bringing it to his mouth with exaggerated "nom nom" sound effects, heedless of the mess left in his wake.
By the time I'd managed to corral him long enough to assemble something vaguely resembling grown-up food, my baby boy was covered in a thin sheen of flour and what I desperately hoped was vanilla extract.
"Okay, little man. I think we're just about ready to eat. Go wash those grubby paws while Daddy cleans up, yeah?"
But rather than scampering off to the sink like I expected, Clark simply plopped down on his bum right there on the floor, grinning up at me.
"Nuh uh," he sing-songed. "I'm too little to reach. You gotta help me."
My eyebrows shot up to my hairline, taken aback by this sudden burst of brattiness. This was a test, I realized with a start. A way of gauging how committed I really was to this newfound dynamic. To seeing if I'd balk at the first hint of stubbornness.
"Is that so?" I mused, crossing my arms over my chest. "Cause from where I'm standing, it looks like my baby bug is more than capable of waddling on over to the sink and getting squeaky clean. He just needs the proper motivation, is all."
Clark pursed his lips. His binky bobbed as he worked it between his teeth, brow furrowed in thought.
"What kinda moti-bation?" he asked finally.
"Well," I drawled, "If a certain adorable helper of mine can manage to wash up and plant his cute little booty in his chair all by himself, like a big boy, there might just be an extra special dessert in it for him after dinner."
He perked up instantly, eyes going wide and hopeful. "Like ice cream?"
"Something even better." I paused for effect, watching him practically wiggle with anticipation. "How does a Sundae sound? Two scoops of vanilla, chocolate syrup, sprinkles, the whole shebang."
The ensuing shriek of delight was so earsplitting, I was briefly concerned the neighbors might call the cops. But then Clark was scrambling to his feet and booking it to the bathroom, all traces of brattiness evaporated.
"I do it!" he chanted, feet slapping against the tiles in his haste.
I counted a slow five before following after him at a more sedate pace, pressing my lips together to keep from laughing outright at his puppyish enthusiasm.
But the urge to chuckle died a swift death when I rounded the corner and took in the sight that greeted me. Because there was my sweet baby boy, stripped down to his training pants and sat precariously on a stack of haphazardly arranged step stools, stretching with all his might to reach the faucet.
Before I could second-guess myself, I was across the room and scooping him into my arms, heedless of the water he'd managed to splash everywhere in his flailing.
"Oh no you don't," I growled, already marching us back to the kitchen. "Daddy isn’t about to let his best boy brain himself on the bathroom tile."
"But Brody," Clark whined, squirming futilely, "I almost had it!"
"I don't doubt that for a second, sweetheart. But some things are too dangerous for little bugs to do alone. That's what Daddies are for - to help keep you safe while you explore."
Depositing him on the counter, I reached for a clean dishcloth and wet it thoroughly, wringing out the excess with deft twists of my wrist.
"Now hold still. Let Daddy clean you up properly, yeah?"
And though he whined and wriggled, nose scrunched in distaste as I wiped the worst of the mess from his face and hands, I could tell he was secretly thrilled to be doted on like this - tended to and fussed over and treated like the most precious thing in existence.
As I tossed the soiled cloth and tugged his discarded jammies back into place, I could practically see the tension bleeding out of him, the last stubborn vestiges of hesitation and doubt melting away in the face of such wholehearted acceptance.
"Alright, my squeaky clean snuggle bug!" I proclaimed grandly, hoisting him off the counter and onto my hip. "I hereby declare you fit for consumption. By which I mean fit to consume mass quantities of dino nuggets and tater tots."
That startled a giggle out of him, his face alight with happiness. Then there was a loud tummy gurgle, startling us both into silence.
"Woah," I breathed after a beat, eyes wide with exaggerated shock. "You got a baby dinosaur in there, short stack?"
Clark dissolved into helpless snickers, swatting at my chest in playful admonishment as I carried us back. "No, it's just my tummy. It wants nuggies."
He wriggled impatiently until I deposited him back on his feet. When I moved to pull out a chair, he stopped me with a hand on my forearm.
"Brody?" he ventured, a tiny furrow appearing between his brows. "I wanna use my special seat. For little boys."
I blinked, momentarily thrown. But then understanding dawned.
"Sure," I assured him, letting my smile show just how delighted I was by the request. "In fact, I think that's a wonderful idea. Do you need Daddy's help getting it all set up?"
He shook his head. "Nuh uh. I can do it. I'm a big helper."
He scampered off down the hall in excitement. I busied myself laying out our plates and pouring drinks, keeping an ear trained for any signs of distress.
But barely a minute had passed before he was bounding back into the room, flushed and bright-eyed, a bright blue booster seat clutched in his arms like a trophy.
And suddenly, the image of Clark all strapped in and bouncing with glee, kicking his little feet and babbling around spoonfuls of dinosaur nugget while I cooed, airplane-zoomed and made an unholy mess of us both... it hit me like a freight train.
I held out my arms in silent invitation, chest aching with the need to feel him close. Clark wasted no time in clambering into my lap, shedding the booster seat along the way in his eagerness to burrow into my embrace.
"Good job, honey," I praised hoarsely, dropping a fierce kiss to his temple. "You did so good, finding your special seat all by yourself. Daddy's so proud of you."
Clark preened, practically vibrating with the force of his joy. "Cause I'm the best helper," he reminded me.
Chuckling softly, I hefted him more securely in my arms and stood. Together, we made quick work of getting the seat locked in place, Clark practically wiggling with excitement by the time I finished fiddling with the straps.
There he sat, his cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling with unabashed delight as he wiggled experimentally, testing the give of the sturdy buckles.
“I'm hungry!" The pout on that mouth, coupled with the whiny pitch of his voice, never failed to turn my insides to molten goo. It was a miracle I managed to remain upright under the onslaught of weapons-grade cuteness being unleashed upon my person.
"Of course, baby bug. Daddy got a little distracted by how adorable you look in your big boy chair. Here, let's get a bib on you and then we can dig in."
But my attempt to affix the cute little dinosaur-print bib was thwarted by a squawk of protest and flailing limbs.
"No!" Clark wailed, turning his face away petulantly. "No bib. I'm not a baby."
Ah, the brattiness I'd been waiting for, right on cue.
Biting back a grin, I gentled my tone. "Wearing a bib is nothing to be ashamed of - in fact, Daddy thinks it makes you look very grown-up and responsible."
I could practically see the conflicting desires warring on his face - the urge to dig his heels in and assert his independence versus the deep-seated need to be praised, validated, seen as good.
In the end, that need won out, as it so often did with little ones. Especially the ones who'd gone so long without the affirmation they craved.
"Okay," Clark relented, shoulders slumping a bit in defeat. "I wear my bib."
I loaded up a bright green plastic plate with a veritable mountain of chicken nuggets, tater tots, and carrot sticks, and set it down on the tray of the booster seat with a flourish.
Face lit with anticipation, he bypassed the cutlery entirely, heedless of the mess dribbling down his chin. For a moment, I could only stare, torn between the urge to laugh and the need to grab my phone and preserve this moment. I found myself plucking a nugget from the rapidly dwindling pile and holding it to his ketchup-smeared lips.
"Open up, sweet pea," I sing-songed. "Here comes the airplane."
He giggled and obediently opened his mouth, allowing me to zoom the nugget in.
In the end, I surveyed the carnage with a grin, taking in the state of Clark's face and bib with a shake of my head.
"It's safe to say we've vanquished the hungry tummy monster," I declared, standing and stretching. "But now we've got a mess monster on our hands instead. I think somebody needs a little clean up, don't you?"
Clark blinked up at me, momentarily dazed, before a slow, sly grin unfurled across his face. "I'm not messy," he said innocently, even as a glob of ketchup dripped from his chin onto his bib. "Big boys don't get messy."
"Is that so?" I asked mildly, arching a brow. "Because it looks like a certain little boy is wearing more of his dinner than he ate."
He had the audacity to pout, lower lip jutting out. "Nuh-uh. I'm clean as a whistle. See?"
And with that, he swiped a hand across his face and held it out to me, as if to say "ta-da!". Of course, all he succeeded in doing was smearing the mess around even more, streaks of orange and red painting his cheeks like abstract art.
Shaking my head in amused resignation, I reached for a damp washcloth and gently grasped his sticky hand in mine. He squirmed and fussed, whining about being a "big boy" even as he leaned into my touch, savoring the gentle swipes of the cloth over his delicate skin. By the time I'd wiped the last traces of dinner from his face and hands, he was limp and pliant in my arms, eyelids drooping with contentment.
"There," I murmured, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. "All clean. That wasn't so bad, was it?"
"No," he mumbled, nuzzling into my palm like a sleepy kitten. “It’s nice when you take care of me."
"Yeah?" I managed, voice rough with emotion. "Well I like taking care of you too, sweetheart. More than anything in the world."
Clark hummed, a drowsy little smile playing at the corners of his mouth. And then, he reached out and wound his arms around my neck.
"Thank you," he whispered, hot breath gusting over my skin. "For everything. For being here, and wanting me, and making me feel so special."
He shuddered in my arms. I simply held him close and let him feel it - the depth of my commitment, the breadth of my devotion. Let it sink into his skin and settle into his bones, undeniable as gravity.
"I've wanted this for so long," he confessed after a long moment, voice small and muffled against my neck. "Dreamed about it, even. Having someone to take care of me like this, make me feel cherished and precious."
My arms tightened around him reflexively. "And now you have it," I promised fiercely. "Now you have me.”
He sniffled, nodding jerkily. "I know," he whispered. "I trust you. With all of my heart."
With a last lingering squeeze, I straightened up and gently disentangled him from my embrace.
"Alright, my little koala," I teased, thumbing away the traces of wetness on his cheeks. "As much as I'd love to stand here and snuggle you all night, I think it's about time we got you ready for bed.”
Clark pouted, but the effect was somewhat ruined by the jaw-cracking yawn that chose that moment to escape. Chuckling, I helped him onto his feet, keeping a steadying hand on his shoulder when he wobbled a bit. He slipped his hand into mine and let me lead him down the hall to his bedroom.