27. Pee-to-Skin Is a Thing Too
PEE-TO-SKIN IS A THING TOO
brAXTON
I’ve had too much coffee. I’m jittery, bouncing on the balls of my feet, and flat-out nervous. I don’t get nervous. But seeing as how my world is getting turned upside down in the next couple of hours, I guess it’s reasonable to be antsy.
I drop and do push-ups, focusing my mind and pressing the anxiety from my body.
“What are you doing?”
My sister and my dad stand in the doorway, staring at me as if I’ve grown a third arm.
“Brushing my teeth,” I deadpan. And then bound up, brushing the dirt off my hands. “What are y’all doing here?”
“Thought that would be obvious, Brax. I came to meet my grandson.”
“He’s not here yet.”
“I noticed. Got any coffee?” He doesn’t wait for an answer but moves through my entryway and the living room into the open kitchen and makes himself at home. “Want one, Bright?”
She declines and being the fierce, brilliant woman she is, she begins directing. “Go wash your hands. And run a washcloth over your neck. Is that aftershave? You don’t do strong scents with babies.”
I swear I’ve become Forrest Gump because I’m staring at her not understanding how she knows something about everything.
“Now, Brax. Go.”
I do as I’m told if only because I can’t stand still any longer.
In my bathroom, I stare at my reflection. I don’t have time for this shit normally. I get up early. I work all day. I work lots of evenings. I spend time with my family as I can. Friends even less… Because this ranch takes up most of my time.
I’ve never noticed the small crow’s feet that radiate from my eyes or the tan lines around them from wearing sunglasses in the bright Texas sun.
Dark tanned skin is evidence of my day job that is the farthest thing from a halogen-lit, office job in a cushy executive chair.
It’s a little piece of my mom that lives with me forever—her Italian heritage.
My son’s heritage.
“Someone’s coming up the drive,” Bright shouts, and I snap out of my reverie.
Harriet Browning knocks on the door to my house at ten twenty-two on a Thursday morning. I stand, fused to the spot, as my sister opens the door and launches in. Browning gives her the once-over and looks at me quizzically.
“This is my sister, Dr. Brighton Ranger. Bright, this is Harriet Browning. She is assigned to Colt’s case.”
“Nice to meet you,” Bright pipes in. Thank God she’s taking point. I owe her big time. I’m rooted to the floor. Immobile. In the carrier, hanging in the crook of her elbow, lies the boy who will—no, has—changed my life.
“Welcome, Miss Browning. Can I get you anything?”
“I need to do a full inspection. It’s for safety only. Would you like to take Colt? He’s asleep.”
I reach for the carrier and take him from her arms. I gently lift the blanket and stare down at chubby cheeks and a shock of brown hair.
People always say that babies look like one parent or another.
I can’t see it right now, but I know, in that moment I know, I’ll spend every day of the rest of my life looking for it.
Elias arrives at ten forty-five, thinking he’s early for an eleven o’clock appointment.
He reads through the paperwork and advises me where to sign.
It’s not like an adoption where there’s a termination of parental rights or clauses regarding visitation.
Eli also has the foresight to bring a will, one he promptly drops on the end table near the front door.
“For your review. You need one. Be smart. Check it out and get back with me.” He spears me with a glance. “Quickly.”
And because we’re tight, and he can see the craziness happening around me—a hint of what’s happening inside me—he gives me a smile and makes a graceful exit mere moments before Harriet Browning does the same. Although she doesn’t offer the same smile, but a simple shake of her head.
I stare at my sister, who is cradling my son and rubbing his back, since I’ve been doing paperwork and escorting Browning around my home. She waves goodbye to Browning, throwing up a one-fingered salute when the older woman’s back is turned.
“Well.” She stands, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “I don’t want to, but I’m gonna go. You need some time. When you need me, call me or text me. I’ll be here anytime. You know it. Congratulations, Brax. He’s perfect.”
She places the still sleeping bundle in my outstretched hands. “Watch his head,” she says and then slides out the front door into the midday sun. I’m standing there, amazed that this little bundle has stayed asleep so long.
“Well, climb in your chair, Brax. Take your shirt off.”
“What the fuck, Pop?”
“Don’t say ‘fuck’ around my grandson. You heard me.”
“What are you on about, old man?”
“Sit. Shirt off.”
“I can’t get my shirt off while I’m holding a baby. Here.” I hold Colt out to him, and he accepts, but doesn’t tuck him right in, which I find odd.
“What’s going on, Pop?” I unbutton my dress shirt before reaching back between my shoulder blades to tug my tee over my head.
“Sit.”
I do. This might as well be a fraternity hazing with as much info as I’m given. He holds Colt out to me and undoes his onesie, leaving him only in a diaper. Then he places his almost naked body on my chest.
“Skin-to-skin. It’s a thing. I started researching some things when we spoke while mending that fence. It bonds parents with their children. It tells Colt you’re safe and that he can be secure with you.”
I’m sure he says more, but my heart overrides my brain as I look down, studying my son. My son. And I’m in awe. Bright is right—he’s perfect. Ten fingers, ten toes, and beautiful soft skin. He’s so pale against my dark chest and so small under my palms.
He’s everything.
“Fuck, I miss your mother.”
“Don’t say ‘fuck’ around my son.”
I look at Pop and he at me in return, a real smile playing on his lips. “This is going to be a hell of an adventure.”
That adventure turns out to be exhausting. Not long after my first few moments of skin-to-skin with Colt, it becomes evident that pee-to-skin is a thing too. As are tears-to-skin.
In the four hours since I’ve met my son, he and I have had a shower twice.
Twice. Once, since we were both covered in the unspeakable.
The second time was for the baby food that failed to end up in his mouth, but was successful in finding his hair, his fingers, the ripples under his chin, and for some reason, gunked in his ears.
He’s had a bottle, and we’ve both had a nap.
I’m a man who runs a multi-million-dollar horse ranch and I’ve been reduced to asking basic questions over and over again. “Colt, are you hungry? Colt, are you wet? Colt, are you tired?”
I ask myself the same. Have I eaten? Don’t think so…
. The coffee has long since gone cold and its effects worn off.
Am I tired? I’m wired and exhausted. Apparently, I owe Cyler a raise, since he’s the only one working around here.
Bright’s doing her thing in the stables, but real ranch work—that’s been forgotten.
My ability to juggle priorities has become embarrassingly poor.
So far, I’ve managed to change diapers, heat bottles, and serve apple puree.
Colt is certainly not relaxed. He sleeps, but when he’s awake, he fidgets and appears tense.
I’m sure it’s because I’m fucking up. And no doubt it’s because I’m not his mom.