I go back and forth between cursing God, telling him he can’t have her—to threatening that if he tries, I’ll march straight into heaven, scoop Chelsea up, and carry her home. But mostly, I just beg.
Please, God, please don’t let me screw this up. Don’t let anything go wrong. Please, God, please, please, please, fucking please.
And then my voice is echoing off the walls. “The head is out.”
My child’s face is still, covered in fluid and splotched with a white fleshy substance.
“It’s not over!” Chelsea grunts and strains even harder.
And then, in a rush of liquid, my son slides into my hands.
“He’s out!” I call. I grab a towel and wipe his face, clearing his nose and mouth.
“Is he crying?” Earl asks.
The answer is a strong, pissed-off screech. And it’s the most beautiful fucking sound I’ve ever heard.
“Yeah, he is. He’s crying.”
And he’s not the only one.
His little mouth opens wide and indignant. His tiny, perfect limbs flail as I dry them with the towel. His sounds change to whimpers as I wrap him up in a new, dry towel and put him on Chelsea’s stomach. In her arms.
She cries as she holds him, looks at him. And her whisper is feather soft. “Hi, there. We’ve all been waiting for you.”
I lean down next to her and rest my forehead against her temple—just breathing her in. Holding them both close.
“We did it, Jake.”
Thank you, thank you, thank you . . .
“We sure did.”
****
Talk about a fucking day.
The paramedics showed up a few minutes after Robert was born. They took care of the umbilical cord, and Chelsea, and all the things that need to happen right after childbirth. Each of the kids got a good look at Robert before he and Chelsea were loaded into the ambulance. The boys were thrilled to have a new little brother, and the girls decided he was so damn cute, they didn’t even mind that he had a penis.
Stanton and Sofia stayed with them while I rode with Chelsea. Mother and baby stayed overnight, just to make sure everybody was good to go. When they came home, we let the kids take off from school for the rest of the week—which is always a cause for celebration.
We’re all lying around the den now, watching TV in our pajamas, even though it’s two o’clock in the afternoon. A pitiful cry from the baby monitor tells us that someone is up, probably wet and hungry. I kiss Chelsea—it’s like I’m unable not to kiss her—every time the baby cries. Which is a lot.
“I’ll get him,” I say against her sweet mouth.
Down the hall, in our room, I lift him from the bassinet and change his diaper. And he really doesn’t like that. I swaddle him back up and sit in the rocking chair, soothing him.
His whimpers die down and he just kind of looks at me, the way babies do—like he’s waiting for something. After a few seconds, I think maybe he wants a song—a lullaby. There’s one band that gets played in this house more than any other, so against my better judgment, it’s one of their songs I choose.
I sing in a low, off-key voice . . . until the sound of a lone giggle floats down the hall and under the door. Then it’s joined by another.
And another.
Until there’s a full-blown chorus of chuckles going on in the living room.
And Regan’s high-pitched voice informs me, “We can hear you singing One Direction!”
That’s when I remember . . . the fucking baby monitor. I shake my head and laugh at myself. Then I look down into my son’s dark, pensive gaze.
“We’re never going to live this one down. Ever.”
Epilogue
Seventeen years later
I’m working from home today—because if I’ve learned anything after raising kids, it’s the moment you let your guard down, the second you make plans that don’t revolve around them, they screw with you.
I’m at my desk, halfway through the final read-through of a motion for dismissal, when the door opens, and Chelsea pops her head in. She’s every bit as hot in her late forties as the day she opened that front door and literally took my breath away. I’m a lucky bastard.
“It’s time, Jake.”
I stand up, grab my jacket from the back of my chair, and follow her out. We stop in the den, where Robert and Vivian are stretched out on the couch, watching TV and feeding each other popcorn. They’ve been a couple since middle school—it’s not really that surprising since they were practically attached at the hip before they were even born.
I don’t know if they’ll be together for eternity, like they say they will. They’re young, and life is so very unpredictable. But I know they’ll be friends for the rest of their lives.
“Your mother and I are going to the hospital. Are you coming?”
My son takes after me in build and personality. He’s stubborn and rebellious, but there’s a playfulness to him that I never had—because his childhood was a hell of a lot different from my own. And I’ll never stop being grateful for that. He has his mother’s eyes and her steely but kind resilience. I’m grateful for that, too.
He shakes his dark head. “Nah, but call me after the baby’s born—we’ll come then.”