Chapter 20 #2
“You jinxed it,” I say with a laugh. “First rule of babysitting: never acknowledge it out loud when the baby stops crying. Now, point me toward the nursery and you go get yourself cleaned up.”
The nursery is an adorably decorated and clearly unused room, with all of Evie’s things in Pat and Lindy’s room along with a small bassinet by the bed. I feel a little weird making myself at home in their bedroom, but all that really matters is getting Evangeline cleaned up.
There’s a plastic baby bathtub on the counter in their bathroom shaped like a whale, and in just a few minutes, she’s sparkly and fresh and poop-free.
Some babies hate baths, but Evangeline’s crying halted again in the warm water.
In moments, she’s kicking her feet wildly, soaking the front of me as she gives me a gummy grin that tugs at my heart.
“Well, aren’t you just precious,” I tell her. “I can hardly believe you were giving your grandpa Tank so much trouble.”
She makes an excited gurgle, then sends another wave of water out of the tub and all over me.
But it’s hard to care about a little water when there is an absolutely precious baby enjoying it so much.
Telling myself they won’t care, I also manage to find a passable T-shirt of Lindy’s and ball my poopy one into a plastic bag.
Ten minutes later, I return downstairs with a freshly diapered and dressed baby to find a freshly showered and sort-of dressed Tank emerging from the kitchen.
I laugh. “What are you wearing?”
“My stuff is all at Wolf’s. This was the only clean shirt I could find down here in the laundry room.”
“I’m not sure we can call that a shirt,” I say, shaking my head. It’s a blue tank top, one that must belong to Lindy, not Pat, based on the fit. It stops a good inch above Tank’s belly button and clings to his broad chest for dear life.
Tank drags a hand through his wet hair, which shows off the muscles in his arms and shoulders. “Would you prefer I take it off?” He grins, grabbing the bottom of the tank top and starts to tug it up.
“No!” I say quickly. “Leave it on. Please. It’s distracting, but less distracting than looking at … all that.”
No point in ignoring the six-pack in the room.
The grin Tank gives me is cocky, but not the icky kind that sends red flags waving in the wind. It’s the smile of a man who knows how good he looks and also knows that I know it too. And he seems to like that I all but admitted that I like the way he looks.
I almost suggest that he go grab a shirt from Pat’s closet, but he knows where his son’s closet is. If he chooses not to go up there and grab a T-shirt, who am I to complain?
“How’s Evie? She seems better.” Tank steps closer, tentatively reaching up to touch the duck fluff of damp hair on top of her head. The gesture is so soft, so tender that I find myself suddenly bereft of my voice.
Then, I glance up and see him in the ridiculous tank top—that looks ridiculously too good—and it helps. Slightly.
“She’s settled now. And smells a bit better too.”
I lean down, inhaling her fresh baby scent.
It’s one of those smells that hits me with a rush of memory and dopamine.
Evangeline—Evie, as Tank seems to call her—may not be related to me by blood or anything but my connection to Tank right now, but that in no way diminishes the feeling of pure love I’m feeling.
I’ve fallen for Tank at an alarming rate, but my attachment to this baby is almost instant.
She is precious. I love her. I want to hold her for the next seven to ten hours.
Or, at least, until she needs to be fed next.
“Is Lindy using formula or is she breastfeeding?” I ask, proud that I don’t sound awkward saying the word breast.
“Breastfeeding.”
There’s no hesitation in Tank’s voice either, and it makes me absurdly happy that he can discuss this without it being uncomfortable. It shouldn’t be weird saying the word breasts in respect to feeding babies, but some men seem to struggle with this concept.
Like my husband, who at first, kept covering his eyes when I was nursing John.
“It’s natural!” I remember yelling in a particularly hormonal moment when John was six weeks old. “It’s beautiful and it’s what breasts are for!”
Then, at the look on David’s face, I threw the TV remote at him.
He was lucky something heavier wasn’t within reach.
Hormones are a powerful thing, capable of turning a typically rational woman into an unrecognizable rage monster.
Though, looking back, I still feel like it was somewhat of a valid reaction.
“Or—it’s one of the things breasts are for!” I continued yelling. “And you better believe that for now, it’s definitely all that they’re for!”
That little outburst did nothing to help David get more comfortable with me breastfeeding.
He was great in all other aspects of taking care of our kids, including diaper blowouts like the one Evie just had.
Poop up the back of a onesie and all the way up into the hair?
No problem. But when it came to breastfeeding, he just never got normal.
Thankfully for him, he didn’t have to deal with it for long; my milk basically dried up after three months with both babies no matter how many special teas I drank, lactation cookies I ate, or other things I did in an attempt to increase my supply.
I swear, the man breathed a sigh of relief the first time I sent him to the store for a can of formula. Meanwhile, I struggled with feeling like a total failure because my body wouldn’t do what all the books and lactation consultants said it should.
Anyway, the point now is that it’s refreshing to be able to discuss breastfeeding—not like I want it to be a common topic of conversation or anything—without having a man completely shut down.
When there’s the tiniest twinge of guilt at the way David falls short compared to Tank, I tell myself to get over it. I loved David, with his positive attributes and his flaws. We had a good but imperfect marriage, which is all you can ask for.
I know Tank has flaws, and I’m sure they’ll become evident soon. And if things progress with us in a marriage direction, then we’ll find our own version of an imperfectly good one too.
It’s probably normal to think about how Tank and David compare, and I don’t think I’m dishonoring either man when this happens. Maybe I should ask Emily, the resident multiple marriage expert, about this later.
“Why do you ask? Do you think she was crying because she was hungry? Lindy said she should be fine until they get back, but I don’t know.”
“She doesn’t seem to be hungry.” I laugh softly as Evie kicks against my ribs. “I was just wondering when I’d be forced to hand her back over. I could hold her all day.”
“Same. Well, when she’s not covered in poop,” Tank says. “She’s amazing. I didn’t know Jo as a baby, so this part is new to me. Here—sit down and let me get you a glass of water. I’ll tell you the whole story.”
“I’d love that.”
I settle onto the couch, though getting comfortable is harder than it sounds. I’m still wiggling, trying to find the right position for not only me but Evie when Tank returns with a glass of ice water. He sets it on the side table and then stuffs a throw pillow behind my back.
“Better?” he asks.
“Perfect. Thank you.”
“Need me to hold her?” he asks.
“Absolutely not.”
He laughs at this. “I can’t believe she’s being so good now.” He pauses, then frowns. “I couldn’t figure out why she was crying. I hope it’s okay that I called. I panicked.”
“I’m glad you called. I’m exactly where I want to be.”
The words slip out before I can weigh whether or not this level of honesty is too much. With Tank, I’m less self-conscious and unabashedly honest in a way I never was in relationships. Not even with David—at least, to start.
I’ve been staring at Evie’s perfect, round cheeks but now look at Tank, expecting him to be watching the baby too.
But he’s grinning at me in a way that assures me that my honesty wasn’t too much.
Scooting closer, Tank wraps an arm around my back until I’m propped up by the pillow behind me but I can also lean into him.
“This is exactly where I want to be too,” he says, and my heart does a happy little skip in my chest.
Evie squeals, and we both shift to look back at her. She’s grinning at Tank, the same wide smile I saw during her bath.
“I was worried she didn’t like me when she wouldn’t stop crying,” Tank confesses, holding out his finger, which Evie grabs in her little fist.
“I don’t think you need to worry about that,” I say. “I bet she just had to poop—sometimes they get fussy and gassy right before. And then she did poop, so I’m sure she was crying because no one wants poop in their hair.”
Tank shudders. “I definitely don’t. I didn’t even like it on my clothes. And hands. Ugh. No more poop talk.”
“Fair enough. At least, until she does it again.” I laugh at his expression. “I doubt she’ll have another blowout so soon. We’re probably safe. Anyway, I really am glad you called me. I’m happy to help. This is the highlight of my week, actually.”
Tank pulls back a little to give me a pointed look. “Really? The baby is the highlight of your week? Not anything else?”
“Should I have another highlight, Theo?”
He leans closer, his lips brushing my ear as he murmurs, “I love being with my granddaughter, but I have another highlight in mind. Need me to tell you about it? Or, maybe I could show you. See if it changes your vote to something else.”
His words travel like a current over my skin, and I have to pull back a little to keep my head clear.
“I think showing me would be a bad idea right now, all things considered. You might distract me from my very important baby-holding duties.”
Tank chuckles, but gives me a look promising he’ll show me later. “Fair enough.”
“Why don’t you tell me about Jo?”
While letting Evie grip his finger in her tiny hand, Tank tells me the full story of how Pat and Lindy met, dated, broke up, then met again in Sheet Cake.