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Fourteen hours later, we add another layer to our love: our gorgeous daughter, Rose.* * *Luca
SEVEN WEEKS LATERThis old guy at the market last week told me to hold on tight to Rose, because babies are like slippery fish. I thought the dude was kind of crazy until Elise goes out to get her hair cut one Sunday afternoon.
“Maybe you could give her a bath or something,” she says, feathering a kiss over Rose’s black hair.
I lower the local newspaper I’m reading in an attempt to boost my fluency. “You think she needs a bath? And you don’t want to help her get it?”
Elise gives me a wide-eyed look, paired with a funny little smile. “Well, I’d love to help her take a bath. But I thought bath time might become a dad thing.” She sits up straighter on her end of the couch, cradling Rose against her breasts, which are on full display in a sleeveless, baby-feeding shirt. “I can’t help noticing the only time you really do things with her is when I ask,” she says softly.
Her feet knead my thigh, and she tilts her head as she smiles. “I know you aren’t lazy, and you said you want to do these things, so…” She shrugs one shoulder.
“So, what?” I arch a brow.
“So…I kind of feel like maybe you’re—”
“Don’t you say it, rosa.”
She smirks, and she doesn’t. She feeds Rose as we discuss the weather in Italian—we’re both trying to become more fluent—and when she’s finished and Rose is asleep, she tucks our little bundle into her baby swing and heads toward the mouth of the hall. I can just barely hear the clucking as she flounces toward our bedroom.
I shake my head. “Motherfucker.”
I just got called chicken by my own wife, regarding how I handle our new baby. She’s not wrong, though. I’m worried I’ll break her. Ever since I laid eyes on Rose, she’s seemed too small—and too perfect—to be real. She’s somewhat like her mother that way.
Elise looks almost gleeful as she stops by the couch to kiss me on her way out the door.
“I think someone’s been inside too much,” I tease.
“You know it.”
I get out for therapy and soccer with some guys who live on our street. Also, I go to this gym that’s a town over; there’s no way to do a good home workout with a bench. But, because of how often she’s feeding Rose, Elise is mostly stuck at home.
“Don’t be surprised if I come back in six hours with highlights in every color of the rainbow.” She grins as she moves toward Rose in the swing.
“I think she’ll be fine,” she murmurs. “The last few times with the bottle were okay, and she hasn’t been gassy or had a blowout today.”
I smile at my wife discussing little Rose’s poop, and Elise shakes her head like she thinks I’m insane. “Men and fart stuff.” She rolls her eyes.
“It is kind of funny. You have to admit that. There’s so much of it, and she’s so little.”
“Mmhmm.”
She wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me like she wants to make another little pink-cheeked poop machine.
“Be careful. And text me when you get there.”
That makes her laugh, but she says, “I will. Let me know about you, too. And don’t be afraid to burp her, right? You can use some force. She’s not as fragile as you think.”
I widen my eyes, and she giggles again. “Bye, cuore.”
I wait until the dust cloud from the car’s tires dissipates before I pull my laptop off the shelf and crack it open. I’ve been waiting to check…
Fuck—yep, there’s an email. Shit. I don’t think I can check it. I get up and watch the baby breathe—which isn’t that easy to do while her swing is in motion, but I manage, since it’s something I do all the time. Then I sit back down and think of Elise making chicken sounds.
I click the email…read it once, and then I read it again. And again. And then I’m laughing. I quiet down so bambina won’t wake up. Then I reach for my phone, wanting to call Elise right now and tell her. In the end, I convince myself now’s not the time. She’s going out to relax. I don’t understand how that works—how having a stranger chop the ends of your hair off is like taking a mini vacation for women—but who am I to question what my wife enjoys? She questions nothing about me, embraces every facet of our life together…except when I leave my dirty clothes on the bathroom floor. That, she doesn’t seem to like. I’m getting better, though.
Since I can’t tell Elise quite yet, I text Jace. I don’t know how, but we’ve become real friends. The guy is awesome, just like rosa told me.
