“Blaire.” He takes my face in his hands and forces me to look at him. “Breathe. Just breathe. If you want to wait, we will.” His tongue slips out to moisten his lips. “Just think about it, okay?”
I nod. “I will.”
As I settle back on the bed in his arms, the idea of a baby lying between us doesn’t seem so bad. Ben will be an amazing dad; it’s me as a mom that scares me.
We arrive home a little after ten in the morning the next day and Ben immediately has to leave for the hospital. After a quick peck on my lips, he’s gone for a twenty-four shift. It sucks that he has to leave so soon, but I can’t be too glum since he had the holiday off; I know we won’t always be that lucky.
Which brings me back to the topic of a baby.
Can I handle raising a baby right now with Ben gone most of the time? I think I can, but thinking and knowing are two different things. What scares me the most isn’t that, though—I’m more afraid of losing everything I’ve worked so hard to build the last few years. My business is only beginning to take off and a baby might halt that—if it did, would I resent Ben or the child? I don’t think so.
All my jumbling of thoughts keeps circling back to the same thing: I think we can do this.
It won’t be easy—but it won’t be easy to have a baby on our hands a few years from now—however, since he brought it up, every time I come up with a negative against having a baby right now, I can’t help but see one in my arms and suddenly I want that. I yearn for that little piece of us. It’s crazy, completely nuts, but I think—no, I know—I’m going to tell him I’m ready.
Since I’m still wearing the same clothes from yesterday, I decide to take a shower and then tackle our ever-growing pile of laundry. Ben and I might be adults, but we’re not always the best at the whole adulting thing—resulting in piles of dirty laundry and dishes. The house wouldn’t even be that clean if we didn’t have someone come in twice a month to vacuum and dust.
It takes me a while to catch up on the household chores and when I’m done I make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch.
It’s quiet in the house—too quiet—so I end up turning on some music. Almost immediately, I begin to sway my hips to the beat. I can’t seem to help myself. Soon, I’m dancing through the house, singing at the top of my lungs.
Winnie watches me with shrewd blue eyes. She doesn’t approve of my silliness. Most cats are like that, though—so judgmental.
Even though I don’t have to work today, I find myself in my home office. Most people would probably say their office is their least favorite place to me. Not for me—it’s my happy place.
Three of the walls are painted white, except for the focal wall, which has white and black stripes. It adds sophistication to the room. My desk sits in the middle of the room and is solid black, made out of some glossy material, and my chair is fluffy and white. There are a few black bookshelves, filled with books, files, and other odds and ends. One of my favorite pieces in the room is the wooden swing hanging from the ceiling. Ben surprised me with it because I was always complaining about how I needed to be moving to think clearly. Whenever I was stumped with how to pull together an event, or I just needed a breather, I would sit on the swing and let all my thoughts disappear.
Right now, I bypass the swing and took a seat at my desk. I begin answering emails—mostly inquiries about pricing—and then bring up my design board for an event I am currently working on; a birthday party being thrown by a daughter for her mom’s fiftieth birthday. The daughter gave me very strict instructions, stating that her mom is conservative and won’t want anything outlandish. I have a feeling this is going to be one of the harder events to plan. Even though it is the daughter throwing it as a surprise, I’ve already picked up on her opinionated tendencies, and I figure she’ll be one of those clients that likes to change their mind at the last minute. I’m not complaining, though, and I’m up for the challenge. Life is boring if it’s easy.
I call it quits a few hours later and decide to watch a movie—but not before popping some popcorn, that’s a must. I dump the overly-buttery popcorn into a large mixing bowl and call for Winnie to join me. She hisses from her perch on the dining room table, jumps off, and runs under the couch. I wish I knew what I did to piss her off so badly.
I sit down on the gray sectional and tug the cream, sweater-material, blanket onto my lap before setting down the popcorn bowl. Winnie hisses again from beneath the couch—I guess because I moved the blanket and blocked her view.
I turn on the TV and hit the button that starts the DVD player. I already have the movie in there from a previous day where I didn’t get to watch it completely. The movie comes on and I start it over.
Winnie eases out from beneath the couch—I know because I feel the blanket move.
“Come on, Winnie. Get up here,” I coax. “I have popcorn.”
Winnie loves popcorn.
I get a hiss in response.