“Mmmm.”
“It scents of you.” His tears dripped onto the rail. “I love that part of you is in the crib.”
We held each other, and more tears fell and mingled on the wood.
“Shall we add the crib sheet and mobile?”
He nodded, and I let him do as much as he wanted, and I helped when he asked. This was an omega rite of passage, preparing the place where his baby would lay their head.
“It’s so beautiful. Our little one will sleep here and maybe our grandchildren too.”
I couldn’t think that far ahead, but I was glad my mate was happy with my work.
“And now if you’re up to it, I have a project you can help me with. And it’s something you can do sitting down.”
I’d made three pieces as part of a picture ledge for the baby, so when they were old enough, they could crawl and eventually walk over and take a book out. Remy couldn’t stand for long, and the ledge was so light, he’d have no trouble holding one end while I drilled holes, especially as he was sitting.
I’d made pieces from birch, and I’d added a small front rail for the books to lean against.
“Let me get the wood and my drill and I’ll be right back.”
“If we’re making a whole-ass nursery setting, count me out. I’ll check with you in about a month and see how you’re doing.”
“Custom furniture doesn’t happen overnight, babe.” He must have heard me say that a thousand times. Maybe I should have it tattooed on my brow.
When I returned, he stared at the pieces and frowned until I showed him a pic on the phone.
“Oh, I love it.” He’d been collecting so many books since he found out about the baby, though the picture ledge wouldn’t hold all of them. We’d rotate them and the rest would sit on a traditional bookshelf.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Just hold each piece.”
“You’re drilling into the wall?” He screwed up his face and looked at the pristine carpet that’d been laid before we moved in.
“No, into the studs.” There wouldn’t be much mess, not like drilling into the wall, which I’d done before the carpet was in and before we were living here.
“There’ll be hardly any mess.” But I retrieved an old cloth from the shed and placed it under where I’d be drilling, and I’d vacuum afterward to remove any traces of dust.
When I’d finished all three ledges, Remy pulled picture books from the shelf and chose the ones he wanted on the pictureledge. He arranged them and rearranged them until he was happy with the order and his selection.
“Now the room is finished, and I love it.” We hugged, and his huge belly brushed against me.
If only being a good father was as easy as putting up a shelf. I’d had great examples in my fathers and grandfathers, but like most first-time dads, I worried whether I was up to it. Everyone, including Remy, said kids needed love—our little one had plenty of that already—and as for the rest, we’d learn on the job.
Remy rubbed his back, and I helped him up. I suggested he climb into bed for a nap and I’d bring him some peppermint tea.
He was sitting up and reading a baby book when I walked in with two teas. Oh no, he was going to discover we shouldn’t have certain color crib sheets. We’d already repainted the nursery twice before we moved in.
“We should be talking to the baby more.”
“Okay.” We had been, and Remy read the baby stories, and we played music. But if more was needed, I’d do that.
I put my tea on the nightstand and lay my head beside my mate’s bump.
“Shall I tell you how Daddy and I met?” I’d related so many stories about my life, I couldn’t remember if I told this one, but it wasn’t as if our little one was going to complain.
“I kept trying to phone a customer who wasn’t answering. I couldn’t even leave a message, and I was getting fed up.”
