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3 Just Another Day in Paradise
Rob
The garage dooropens smoothly with the press of a button. I whistle as I nose The Lady into her parking space beside Evie’s SUV. Mike and Alex are gonna lose so hard. Not like they won’t already be bringing their families to us this year for our annual vacation since Evie’s due next month, but when I have the opportunity, I get a sick sense of satisfaction out of rubbing their noses in dirt.
While they were betting sports cars if their wives are the happiest tomorrow, I bet overnight bottle feedings during vacation. Robbie might be four, but I haven’t even remotely forgotten the level of exhaustion associated with never sleeping for more than two to three hours at a time for those first few months. There aren’t many people I implicitly trust with my kids, but the Fossoways and Mitchells fall into that small circle. When I tell Evie I’ve secured a full week of reprieve for us, she’s going to mouth fuck me with her tongue so hard, I’m doubly sure to win this latest bet.
Life is good.
I grab the two dozen long-stem yellow roses, velvet box with the diamond tennis bracelet nestled inside, and the biggest box of chocolates Ironville’s candy store could ship across the country off my passenger seat. Those idiots really thought I was just going to give Evie my undivided attention tonight as her Valentine’s Day gift.
Morons.
I give her that every night even if it’s only for a half hour when I’m on the road or after we’ve tucked Robbie in for the night until we both pass out in bed with our latest shared read on the Kindle between us. That little black box really hurts when you roll over on it in the dark hours of earliest morning.
Sure, I have plans for a full body massage and a relaxing, warm bath in the works tonight, too. Evie damn well knows if she even so much as winces or rubs her back where I can see it, she’s getting that treatment anyway. And yes, she can buy whatever she wants for herself, but I also know she likes when I spoil her. Getting a gift from the person you love is always better than buying it for yourself.
Hell, I get excited when she buys me underwear because she knows I don’t like the stuff I get for free from whatever the latest sponsorship is that Shawn insists I need to do. You just can’t put a price tag on your partner in life knowing you that well.
I happen to know my wife loves yellow roses, cannot resist chocolate from Ironville Candy even if she thinks she needs to lose five pounds, and was confused as hell when all the other football wives asked what her push present was when Robbie was born.
Neither of us had ever heard of such a thing, but apparently, it’s a thing. It usually involves diamonds. So, after our baby girl is born and those catty bitches clamor for proof, Evie can show off some new jewelry. I stowed the matching necklace in the glove box for D-Day, just to be doubly covered on that front.
I open the garage door that leads into the kitchen tentatively, expecting to fend off the usual tackle from my little guy before he can crush his mother’s flowers. His box of candy is ready and waiting as a distraction. Instead of being greeted with excited shouts of “Dada’s home,” I’m met with total silence. And a world of worry.
It looks like a fucking bomb went off in here.
Evie’s usually pristine kitchen is covered in flour, smells like burned something or other, and is completely void of family activity.
The panic seizing my chest tempers with the knowledge that Evie would have called if something was really wrong. Byers would have called if Evie couldn’t. If nothing else, I would have been alerted if her health monitor detected something abnormal. I set the gifts down on the kitchen island then make my way further into the house, following the cacophony of Robbie’s favorite cartoon show on the TV.
My heart pounds a little harder with each step as I follow the trail of mayhem that leads the way like breadcrumbs. By the time I step into the family room, I’m not sure what I’ll find.
All my fears evaporate with a sigh of relief. There, on the couch, is my family. Sound asleep at seven o’clock in the evening. Robbie’s bedtime isn’t until eight, but by the looks of things, he’s worn himself out early. He’s worn his mother out, too.
We don’t usually have time for me to observe them like this. Their faces are relaxed and peaceful in slumber, there’s no rushing to get to the next activity on time, no perfectly combed hair and clean faces to present to the world.
These precious seconds are a gift I didn’t know I wanted.
I crack a smile at the way he’s using her belly for a pillow, one little arm wrapped around where his sister is kicking like a ninja, judging by the way Evie’s skin jumps. Our baby girl isn’t even born yet, but she and her brother are already thicker than thieves. It looks like he delivered a Valentine to her in the best way he knew how. Evie’s belly has what looks like makeup smeared all over it. The swaths of color kind of resemble a smiley face. What’s really weird is how much Evie’s face resembles her belly.
Her head rests against the back of the couch, and her mouth is lolled open. I’d never tell her this, but when she hits about the six-month mark of pregnancy, she starts snoring like an old sailor. If the first time is anything to go by, the noise will resolve itself around one month postpartum. Either that, or I’m just so damn tired by that time, I can sleep through anything except a baby’s cries.
Evie needs to bank all the sleep she can get right now. Even if I get up to deliver a hungry baby to our bed, my wife is the one who has to stay awake to nurse for the first few months until we can transition to a bottle of breast milk. We’ve never experienced how middle of the night feeding frenzies might disrupt an older sibling’s sleep schedule. Robbie already struggles with night terrors that send him leaping into our bed where he stays cocooned in safety and love until dawn puts his fears to rest. Even though the pediatrician assures us he’ll grow out of this phase, there are mornings the poor kid looks as exhausted as his parents. I’m not sure how much more sleep deprivation the little guy can take.
In spite of the mess covering every surface of our home, it looks like they had a fun day. Tomorrow, Evie will go into a cleaning frenzy to put everything back in order, and Robbie will feel bad about making such a disaster. He always strives to be the perfect kid. I don’t know who the hell put it into his head that he isn’t. Probably that damn overachiever private preschool teacher, who expects her students to be the perfect miniature versions of their wealthy parents. If Byers hadn’t insisted it was the safest option for him, I’d pull him out of there in a heartbeat. Kids shouldn’t face that much pressure every day of their young lives.
Even in the middle of temper tantrums about eating broccoli, Evie and I never fail to be grateful for every minute of our time with him. He’s the light of our lives without a doubt.
With one last grateful glance and silent prayer of thanks, I pick up what I can around them without making too much noise before heading back the way I came to get started cleaning the kitchen.
