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“Oh, don’t be silly, she’s only four months old. What’s to know? Besides, you used to babysit all the time.”
“Yes, small children and preteens,” I insisted as Nevie bubbled a yellowish goo from her nose. “People who were potty-trained and didn’t ooze weird substances.”
“You’ll be fine,” Mama Ginger insisted, and dashed out the door into the setting sunlight, where I could not follow.
“Gah! Persuasian voice. Why can’t I ever remember to do that damn persuasion voice?” I cried, prompting a mewling cry from Neveah. “OK, now,” I said, scooping the baby awkwardly out of the bouncie and balancing her on my arm. “Let’s be reasonable. I don’t know you, and you don’t know me. We don’t have to start the evening off by annoying each other.”
The baby, who didn’t know the meaning of the word “reasonable,” wailed even louder.
“Mind if I cry, too?” I asked as the weight of the situation settled on my shoulder. I didn’t even know who her parents were. Of course, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know someone who would name their daughter Neveah. But for all I knew, Mama Ginger was trying to set me up on a kidnapping charge. My house wasn’t baby-proofed. I didn’t have any emergency contact numbers or a first-aid kit. I could only pray there was formula and diapers in that bag, because otherwise, this kid might have to make do with Diet Coke and paper towels.
I rocked the baby gently, making a swishing noise until she quieted. She stared at me under heavy, half-closed lids, her little rosebud mouth slack. Of course, this was just a precursor to her projectile vomiting on me.
I shrieked, swiping at the milky ick dripping from my chin. This startled Nevie, who commenced with more crying. I joined in with her again as I tried to remove the chin goo with the wipes I found in her diaper bag.
“What is it?” I asked desperately. “Are you sleepy? Grumpy? Just name a dwarf, and I’ll do what I can. Are you hungry? I can fix hungry.”
I carried the baby and the bag into the kitchen, where I fished out a bottle with a small amount of white powder. I sincerely hoped it was formula and not part of some elaborate drug-smuggling operation. The problem was, I didn’t know how much water to add to the mix and ended up reenacting Goldilocks and the Three Bears. The first bottle was too thin. The next bottle was so thick Nevie couldn’t get anything out. I finally aimed for middle ground and shook it into something she could tolerate.
The act of drinking apparently filled the baby with an inhuman amount of gas, because she belched like a long-haul trucker. The noise was enough to make her soil herself and then spit up again. This upset milady’s delicate sensibilities, and she started screaming full-blast. At a loss about where I would even start addressing these issues, I started crying, too.
Seeing a grown woman cry seemed to have a soothing effect on the baby. She calmed down enough to let me pull off her little pink outfit and open her diaper. I don’t want to go into details, but I have a hard time believing that much of such a disgusting material could come out of someone so small. I changed Nevie into a clean “Little Diva” onesie and laid her in the bouncie seat long enough to take the diaper out back and bury it.
When I came back into the house, she was dozing. I crept quietly up the first stair so I could get to a non-vomit-y shirt. The baby sensed this and let out a hoarse cry. I rushed back to her, searching the couch cushions for her pacifier. This calmed her down until I tried for the stairs again. In fact, every time I tried to get near clean clothes or left the ten-foot baby perimeter, Neveah made her dissatisfaction known. And they say babies aren’t aware of their surroundings.
This sleeping/crying/holding-my-clean-shirt-hostage cycle continued for an hour or so. Then a tentative knock sounded at the front door.
“Thank God you’re back,” I said as I opened it, carefully balancing the baby on my hip. “Don’t you ever do this again, Mama Ginger, do you under—Adam?”
Adam was standing on my porch, looking tousled and tanned in a blue pullover that brought out the violet undertones in his eyes. He was carrying two carry-out cups of coffee.
“Hey, Jane. I thought that since we haven’t been able to get together for coffee, I would bring coffee to you.” He smiled broadly, and I felt warm. It was like standing in sunlight, only without the spontaneous combustion. He took one look at my desperate, frazzled state and put the coffee down on the porch. “Who have you got there?” he asked in a typical male “jabbering at babies” tone.
“This is Nevie. Ginger Lavelle dropped her off a while ago, and I thought it was her at the door, ready to pick her up. She’s got to come back for her soon, right?” I babbled as I checked the clock. Mama Ginger had left four hours ago. Where could she be? What if Mama Ginger left her until morning, when I was basically inanimate and unable to hear the cries of a hungry, uncomfortable baby?
“Oh, my Lord, what if she doesn’t come back?” I cried. “I can’t take care of a baby! I’m terrible at this. She’s been crying off and on for hours, and no matter what I do, she won’t let me put her down long enough to get a clean shirt, and I don’t know what to do!”
“Oh, it’s OK, Jane,” he said in a calm, soothing tone, which I assumed was as much for my benefit as the baby’s. He took her from me, and she gurgled and cooed at him as she settled into his arms, obviously preferring him over me after just a few moments. The little traitor. “Why don’t do you go upstairs and clean up? I’ll look after her for a few minutes.”
“Are you sure?” I asked, though I already had one foot on the bottom stair. He nodded, and without further hesitation, I raced up the stairs to de-goo myself.
Within ten minutes, Adam had Nevie fed, burped, cleaned up, and asleep on his shoulder. Wearing fresh clothes and carrying my soiled shirt at arm’s length, I found him bouncing her gently in his arms, with her little head tucked under his chin. The low lights danced over the dark gold of his hair as he swayed Nevie back and forth. The sight of Adam with a baby in his arms made my silent heart do a little flip. In my best daydreams, that was what I imagined it would be like to be married and have a family—a good, steady man standing in my house with a sleeping child cradled quietly against him. This was the price I had paid for dodging death. Though the previous hours had taught me that I certainly wasn’t ready for a baby, and likely never would be, I couldn’t help but feel a tiny pang of regret for an opportunity lost.
Seeing me standing there, staring at him, Adam winked and pressed a finger to his lips. He carefully placed Nevie in her little bouncie seat and went outside to retrieve his carry-out coffee.
“How did you do that?” I whispered as we tiptoed into the kitchen.
“Practice,” he said, setting the coffee cup in front of me on the breakfast bar. He slid onto the stool next to me as if this were a long-held routine.
“I thought you were an only child.”
Adam looked sheepish. “Well, taking care of a baby isn’t that different from taking care of a puppy or a calf. They have the same basic needs and give the same sort of cues for hunger, discomfort, being sleepy. And they make almost the same amount of mess. So I’ve picked up a lot of fathering experience down at the clinic.”
I snorted.
“That came out wrong,” he acknowledged, chuckling. He took a sip of his coffee and smiled that warm, crooked smile.
I waited for my nerves to kick in, to start spewing nonsense words and fidgeting. But it seemed that all of the embarrassment and shyness I’d felt before in Adam’s presence had melted away.
