Liam
liam
. . .
I ’ve played to sold-out arenas. I’ve faced screaming fans, broken guitar strings mid-solo, and survived a four-week European tour with a stomach virus. But none of that—and I mean none of it—has prepared me for babysitting my grandkids.
Triplets. As in three babies. At once.
Juniper, the only girl in the whole brood, is currently perched on my lap like she’s royalty, which—let’s face it—she is. Her brothers, Jace and Maverick, are content in their swings beside me, cooing and drooling with the coordination of sleepy hamsters. They’re six months old, which means they’re not crawling yet, but they have mastered the art of synchronized screaming.
“Junie-bug,” I whisper, adjusting the bib around her neck as she burbles at me, “Do you think Gramps should have taken a babysitting course before agreeing to this?”
She responds by blowing a raspberry and drooling down my shirt. I take that as a yes.
I’ll be the first to admit I’m not the best babysitter, but the lovely women in my life needed someone to watch the babies so they could go out for a much-needed spa day; I couldn’t be the one to deny them a massage with Pierre. Whoever the hell that is. My son, bless his heart, is at Notre Dame, giving some sort of presentation on the importance of being a student first, athlete second.
But I only agreed if Harrison came over. He was supposed to be here an hour ago with his grandsons and Oliver. I pull my phone out of my pocket to text him when the door suddenly swings open and Harrison James walks in like he owns the place. He’s got a car seat hanging from each hand and Oliver on his shoulders, who is kicking Harrison’s chest to let him down.
The nice thing to do would be for me to stand and help him. But I’m not nice. He’s my competition for the best grandpa award, one I’m determined to win. “You’re late,” I say.
“You’re ugly,” he replies, setting the twins down and then removing Oliver from his shoulders.
“We both know that’s not true.” I smirk and he grumbles.
“I brought snacks,” Harrison says as he reaches into the diaper bag.
“Is one of them whiskey?” I ask. “I think Peyton and Elle might kill us if we drink while watching their kids.”
“No, just these baby snacks.” He hands me a few. I look at them and wonder what the hell I’m supposed to do with them. Peyton didn’t say the kids could have anything but their bottles.
“Eat it.”
“No,” I tell him. “And the babies are too little.”
Harrison shrugs and tosses a few into his mouth. “What?” he asks as he catches me staring. “They’re good.”
“Gross.” Eating baby snacks isn’t high on my priority list.
Oliver roots through the diaper bag, chucking things over his shoulder like he’s on the hunt for the next great treasure. Harrison picks everything up and redirects him to a stack of building blocks that I suspect will go through the window if we’re not keeping a careful eye on him.
Instead, Ollie goes for the baby wipes and is pulling them out one by one, stuffing them into his pants like he’s a squirrel ready for the winter. I can’t help but laugh.
“Harrison,” I mutter, hoping to get his attention without the feisty toddler hearing me. “Your son just stuffed a pack of wipes down the front of his drawers like he’s the Hulk for Halloween.”
“He’s . . .” Harrison doesn’t finish his sentence. He scoops the squealing toddler up, blows raspberries on his belly, and then helps Oliver take the wipes out of his pants.
Just as I start to think we might survive this, Jace lets out a cry that can only mean one thing.
“We’ve got a code brown,” I say.
Harrison groans and then claps his hands like he’s rallying a team. “Alright. Diaper duty. Rock, paper, scissors?”
“I’ve changed a million. I’m retired.”
Harrison bends over in laughter, slapping his knee. “Not from this tour, you’re not.”
“Let’s call JD. Maybe he can fly over here quick as shit, and we can save it for him.”
“You’re ridiculous, Page. Mister I’m going to be the best grandpa ever . Get your ass upstairs and change the diaper.”
Ten minutes later, we’re both on the floor, side by side, changing diapers like we’re in a reality show challenge. I open Jace’s diaper and immediately gag.
“Oh my God. What did this kid eat? He’s on milk!”
“It’s the dark magic of baby guts,” Harrison mutters, fumbling for wipes. “I think it’s seeping into my soul.”
Jett follows suit, literally. Double blowout. Juniper giggles at us like she knows she’s next.
While I’m halfway through a wipe job, Jace pees mid-air like a little sprinkler. I get hit in the chest. “I’ve been marked,” I say, staring down in horror.
Harrison howls with laughter. "Welcome to the piss zone. At least it missed your mouth."
I gag again.
Juniper laughs.
Sonny pukes.
Maverick stares. This kid just watches everything we do and doesn’t make a peep.
Oliver outdoes them all and pretends to help us by putting the diaper in the trash, only for him to smear shit on the wall.
“Peyton’s going to kill us,” I say as I lift Juniper up. Her diaper isn’t on right, and she thinks it’s the funniest thing ever. Each giggle brings a fart. The fart means Oliver laughs. We’re a freaking riot act.
“At least they won’t ask us to babysit anymore,” Harrison says.
Somehow, we make it through diaperpocalypse and get the babies back into fresh onesies. Harrison has a burp cloth over each shoulder like a cape. I have baby powder in my hair. We’re warriors now.
Instead of taking the brood downstairs, Harrison and I feed them in the boys’ room. I honestly don’t know how Peyton feeds all three at the same time. I try to emulate what I’ve seen her do with some pillow she has, but I can’t keep the babies still. Strike that. I can’t keep Jace and Juniper still. Maverick? He just stares, and it’s getting to be creepy.
“Does Maverick just stare at you?” I ask Harrison.
“Yes. I think he’s a genius trapped in a little dude’s body, and he’s taking all these notes on how to escape.”
“Sounds about right. He’s so chill.”
“You would be too if you were born into this chaos.”
Harrison has a valid point.
I think I have the hang of feeding all three when Juniper, with a flair for the dramatic, waits until I’m lifting her to my shoulder and lets out a burp worthy of a grown man, followed by warm goop sliding down the back of my shirt.
I freeze. “She slimed me.”
“That’s your granddaughter,” Harrison grins. “She knows how to make a statement.”
The next hour is a fever dream. We feed the babies bottles. We bounce, rock, and sway. We sing, make funny faces, and play peek-a-boo.
Oliver climbs onto the coffee table and sings something that sounds like a mash-up of Baby Shark and chaos.
Juniper falls asleep mid-bottle and drools onto my chest. I don’t even care anymore.
We all collapse onto the couch. Harrison is cradling a pacifier like it’s a stress ball. I have something stuck in my hair, and Oliver fell asleep looking for something in the diaper bag.
I exhale like I’ve just finished a marathon and lean back, looking around at the war zone: spit-up towels, diapers, toys, a yogurt-covered dog, and my fellow grandpa in arms.
And I laugh.
Because honestly? This is the most rock 'n' roll thing I’ve ever done.