Awesome.
“No wonder you’re so pissed, bud. Let’s get you cleaned up.” I take off his diaper and he kicks his little legs, covering them in shit as well. All right then, looks like a bath is in order. I remove the shitty diaper and toss it into the . . . bucket . . . thing Reagan said I had to have to help with the smell. Not sure it’s going to be able to do much for the bomb I just gave it, though. Since the sheet on the changing table is shit-splattered already, I pull it off the rest of the way, wrap it around him and head toward the bathroom.
Although not as loud, the little guy is still pissed off. Can’t say I blame him; I’d be pissed too if I had shit all over me. Once in the bathroom, I turn on the water to let it warm, then grab his baby tub and the little yellow duck that tells me the water is the right temperature. Reaching down, I run my hand under the water to see if it’s close. It’s still a little cool.
“Shhh, it’s okay. Daddy’s got you. We’re going to get you all cleaned up, and then get your belly full, I promise,” I try to console him. I’m gently bouncing him in my arms when I feel warmth and wetness on my chest. “What the . . . ?” Pulling him away from my body, I see he’s pissed all over me, all over both of us. Looking down at my son, mad-as-hell face scrunched up, red and wrinkled as he wails, I want to cry with him. Instead, I take a deep breath and slowly release it. “I got you, bud. Shhhh, I got you.”
I pull his baby tub out of the bathtub and set it on the bath mat. Checking the temperature with the little duck, I see the water is ready. I lay Knox down in his tub, which pisses him off even more. Quickly, I remove my boxer briefs, strip him out of his sheet, hold him against my chest, lift the lever to turn the shower on and climb in under the spray.
Holding Knox in one arm, I use the other to bring the detachable shower head down. I turn it to the gentlest stream option, using my leg as leverage. Once I have it where I want it, I slowly rinse us both off. Once we’re both free of the shit and piss we were coated in, I reach for the baby wash. “Looks like Daddy will be smelling powder fresh today,” I tell him.
His little lip quivers, and I’m not sure if he’s cold or if it’s the result of the cry-fest he just had. Either way, I work fast, lathering us both up as good as I can with one hand. I even manage to use it on my hair one-handed. Once we’re both soaped up, I rinse us off quickly and step out of the shower.
The lip quiver gets worse, so I wrap him in a towel and take off for his room. I’m dripping wet, but I didn’t bring a diaper and the little guy is cold. I have him dried and in a diaper in no time with no further mishaps. Dressing him in another sleeper because they’re easy, I use his towel to dry my hair and body.
“All right, little man. Daddy needs some underwear, and then we’ll get you fed.” In my room, I lay him in the center of my bed, making quick work of slipping into a pair of boxer briefs and tossing the towel in the hamper. “Let’s get some breakfast,” I tell him when I pick him up. I can still see the slight quiver of his little lip so I hold him closer, still not sure if it’s cold or sadness.
I’ve gotten pretty good at one-handed bottle-making, so I don’t even attempt to lay him down; I hate it when he cries, and right now he’s content. I hear the coffeemaker turn on just as I pull his bottle out to check the temperature. Perfect. My brew will be done just as he finishes his. I settle into the couch and the little guy begins to gulp. “Slow down, bud. You don’t want a bellyache. Take it from me, that shit is not fun.”
If Mom or Reagan were here, they would give me hell for cussing in front of him, but come on, he can’t repeat it. I look down at him while he eats. I’ve never known this feeling in my heart, the way it swells every time I look at him. To love your child is a feeling that unless you experience it for yourself, you will never understand the meaning. It’s moments like these, like this morning, where he and I get through it together, which make me think that although unexpected, my little man and I will learn to live with our new reality.
By the time he finishes his bottle, he’s sound asleep. I take him to his room and place him back in his bed so I can get us both ready to head out today. In my room, I grab the baby monitor and carry it with me as I get dressed, then head to the kitchen to get his bottles ready for Mom’s. Once that’s done, I go back to his room and as quiet as I can, pack his bag. Diapers, wipes, toys—not that he plays with them—clothes, and just for good measure I throw in extra of all of it. You never can be too careful. I throw his bag over my shoulder and gently lift him from his crib. Downstairs, I strap him into his car seat then gather the diaper and bottle bags. I tap my back pocket to make sure I have my wallet, then the front to check for my phone and keys.
I stop and take a deep breath, and that’s when the smell of coffee hits me. I dig through the cabinet, find the biggest travel mug I can, and fill it up. Not willing to leave him in the house alone, I throw both bags over my shoulder, picking up his carrier with the same arm. Taking my keys out of my pocket, I grab my large steaming mug of coffee. It’s a little challenging to get the door shut, so I end up setting Knox’s carrier on the front porch so I can pull it closed. Placing my coffee on the bed of the truck, I open the door, click the baby seat into place, and throw the bags on the floor. Checking the seat just to make sure it’s secure, I grab my coffee and we’re on the way to Grandma’s.
I arrive to the job site fifteen minutes late. Normally, this isn’t a big issue, but today it is. It’s a big fucking issue. When I pull in, I park behind Kendall. She’s here with them. Are they hitting on her? Did they see through my bullshit of saying I was staking my claim? Fuck! I throw the truck in park, pull the keys from the ignition, and stalk to the house.