5. Cal
Cal
“ I can’t do this.” I gag into my shoulder against the assault of the dirty diaper Charlie has bestowed on me.
I have her tiny feet gathered in one hand, lifted into the air as I get a video call lesson on proper diaper-changing technique. Rosie and Liv crack up laughing. I can even hear Mac’s deep, rumbling chuckle in the background.
“How did someone this little make this much—” I retch again but hold fast to Charlie, who’s wriggling and trying to roll away. “It’s everywhere. Up her back, down her legs, in her hair.”
The dry heaving is real.
My eyes burn from the stench.
“I can’t get it off. These wipes aren’t doing anything. Shit is everywhere. She needs to be pressure washed.”
“Do not pressure wash the baby,” Liv scolds. “But”—she winces—“sometimes a bath is easier. Call me back if you need me.”
The call disconnects, and I pull the rest of Charlie’s clothes off, which is only her socks. “What’d you eat, Belle? How does a body this tiny have that much room to produce this much shit?”
“Shit,” Charlie chirps as I haul her up at arm’s length.
“Yeah, yeah, kiddo. You did. A bunch.” I should be more worried about language, but right now, I just want to get her clean.
It’s after eight, and I’ve managed to keep her alive all day.
She was adorable in the bank while we sorted my card issue, and also at the grocery store when we stopped to pick up the supplies on Liv’s list. Sitting in the top of the shopping cart, waving and saying “Hi” to everyone she saw.
It took us twice as long as it should have because she was a hit with the grannies, and everyone had to stop and coo over her.
A dinner of mac ‘n’ cheese and chicken fries later, with only half of it on the floor and a quarter of it mashed in her hair, I call it a win.
My apartment is older, with a tub-shower combo; should be easy enough to do a toddler bath. But it’s been a while since I’ve scrubbed it, and the thought of her naked butt on the tub floor is gross.
Dual purpose shower it is.
I stand Charlie on the tub floor and strip my shirt off one-handed, opting to keep my boxers on because I’m not getting naked in front of my niece, and start the shower.
Shrieks immediately reverberate off the bathroom walls.
I snatch her up, heart racing as I search for whatever has caused this latest round of ear piercing.
It’s not until I realize how cold her skin is that what I’ve done hits me.
I just blasted her with cold water.
“Jesus, Charlie-Belle, I’m sorry,” I apologize, snuggling her into my chest to try to both comfort and lend her my body heat, only cringing a little as I wrap an arm under her legs. She clings to my neck, still screaming in my ear as I adjust the temp and step under the spray when it’s warm enough.
“Shh, the neighbors are going to call the cops on me if you don’t let up.” To which I would complain about their musical choices and how loud they constantly play said music. “It’s okay, you little banshee. It’s only a bath.”
She doesn’t listen; she just pees down my chest.
I do my best to wash us both and not drop her slick little frame, getting us both as clean as possible. After I dry us both off, she stands patiently while I secure the towel around my waist and shuck my drenched boxers.
I get her rediapered and consider if doubling up would help prevent another blowout, then wrestle her into something that looks like it could be pajamas, or it could be play clothes. I have no idea, but it’s soft and looks comfy.
That done, I sit her on the floor while I fix a bottle of milk and then retrieve her, yet again, and sink into my recliner with a sigh.
My ass is going to be so defined from all these deadlifts. I roll my shoulder because it, too, is feeling the frequency of lifting twenty-five pounds repeatedly.
“What do you want to watch, sweet girl? How about some baseball? The Braves should be on.”
I have no idea if she understands me, but she’s reclined in the crook of my arm, her little shoulder poking into my chest, and she’s still. And quiet.
I tap out a message to my sister, promising to kill her when I see her next for abandoning her baby girl, and also for derailing my life.
Charlie tenses and tries to get up. I press a hand to her belly. “Don’t go getting all riled up. You’ve got to be as exhausted as I am. Are you ready for bed?”
“Uh-huh,” she whimpers.
Huh. Look at that. She can communicate.
“Okay. Do I just lay you down? Do you have a stuffed animal or something you sleep with? Do you need a pillow? No, suffocation hazard. What about a blanket? Do you take the bottle to bed?”
I’m blathering deliriously as I haul her into my spare room and take in the playpen.
The bottom looks like a hard board covered with the barest amount of padding.
It can’t be comfortable. I set her down in the cage, and she immediately stands, gripping the top rail and looking at me with giant eyes.
“I-go.”
“You go?”
“I-go.”
She’s trying to tell me something, because she keeps repeating the words. I remember the stuffed fox she had at naptime and hustle out to the diaper bag. “Is this I-go?”
She snatches the blanket-fox thing from me and cuddles it close, her diapered butt hitting the board with a thump .
Well, okay then.
“Sweet dreams, Belle.” I kiss her forehead and flip the light off, plunging the room into darkness and stepping out. I’ve barely closed the door when the crying starts again.
I call Liv. “She’s crying. Again.”
Liv has been a godsend. A patient mentor. A savior. “Babies do that.”
“How do I make her stop?”
She chuckles. “Oh, you sweet, innocent soul. You’ve fed her, right?”
“Yeah, right before the apocalypse. Then we had a bath, got jammies on. Had a bottle of milk. Got her stuffed fox. Why’s she crying now?”
“Probably because it’s new and different. She’s probably also feeding off your stress level. Give her a few minutes to settle, and maybe she’ll go to sleep. Oh, did you speak to the babysitter?”
“Yeah, we’re meeting her tomorrow.”
I thank Liv profusely, and she reassures me that crying is normal. I force myself to sit and wait out Charlie’s tears.
It’s awful. How can fix it and make her stop?
Also? What the hell is my sister up to and why is she torturing me and Charlie like this? I try to call again, and for the hundredth time, I get sent to voicemail. But this time, I get a message that her box is full.
Frustrated and defeated, I slouch into the chair.
I make another call to my shift commander and explain that I might need to take a couple of shifts off to resolve this issue.
He informs me of my options—I can take three days leave before I get placed on family medical leave, but I have to use my time if I want to get paid.
Time I don’t have because I’m still so new at the department.
So this sitter has to work out, or I’ll be taking leave without pay.
I’ve barely gotten myself out of the financial hole. I don’t want to go back there.
No, I want my damn sister to come get her kid. That’s what I want.
The crying eventually stops, and I tiptoe to the guest bedroom door and peek inside. Charlie is on her belly, legs curled up under her. A wave of relief washes over me.
I survived a day in charge of a tiny human.
The mattress jostles as I collapse into my bed a few minutes later, exhausted. My eyes drift closed before I get both feet off the floor.
ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” blasts through the paper-thin wall of my apartment, jerking me straight up in bed. Like they’re at a damn disco, it’s so loud, it might as well be playing through speakers in my bedroom.
“Mother. Fucker,” I growl, banging a fist against the wall.
If this jackass wakes my niece after the day we’ve had, there will be hell to pay.
I rap again after a moment, this time harder. If this keeps up… if they don’t turn this shit down… I don’t care if they are brand new, or if it makes a bad impression, or whatever the hell they think about me… I’m going to march over there and?—
The music dies to a reasonable level.
“Fucking hell.” I lie back down and listen intently for any sign of disturbance from my tiny houseguest. When none comes, I deep breathe until my heart rate slows and my muscles quit twitching. If I’m this exhausted already, how am I going to survive this until Dani gets her head out of her ass?