you're my human holiday | ryan ross/brendon urie | part 3 of 3
part one | part two | part three
When I get home from Spencer’s the following day, the wedding magazines that were once layering every surface are now replaced with thick catalogues, the faces of smiling babies splashed across the covers.
“I was thinking we could paint the babies room a soft teal colour,” Brendon says as a greeting, looking up from the glossy pages spread out in front of him. He points a finger to a nursery laid out on paper. “Or,” he says, and flips a few pages over until he lands on one with the corner dog-tagged over, “Maybe we could just have a white room, and have Disney characters painted on it. That would be really cute, right? Like The Lion King and Peter Pan, and stuff. Yeah?"
“Um. Sure.”
He looks up, eyebrows knotted together. “Ry, ” he starts slowly, worried, as if he doesn’t want to know. “Don’t tell me - ”
“No,” I say hurriedly, stopping the thought before it gets too far. “No, it’s not that. Nothing’s changed. I just - ” I shrug loosely, not wanting to burst the invisible ball of happiness that’s been enveloped around him since last night. After what happened with Amanda, I’m doubting the chances of her wanting to give us her baby. Why would you when one half of the couple interested in raising your baby looks as if they want to run for the door? “Maybe we should wait. You know, until we know for sure. With Amanda.”
He sighs, chin rested on his hand, eyes cast downwards on the magazine. “You’re right.”
“B, it’s okay,” I start reassuringly, slinking towards him, guilt weighing me down. It’s my fault, after all. “If it’s not Amanda, we’ll find someone else. In the meantime we can plan the wedding like you wanted. That way we can like, you know, do it the right way. Get married, and then have a kid.” I take a seat next to him, knees bumping against his as I take his hand into mine. When he looks up, he’s smiling, and a breath a sigh of relief.
“Amanda called,” he says.
“What?”
His grin widens, eyes suddenly flashing with excitement, as he begins to visibly vibrate in his seat. “She called! She’s still interested!”
I blink at him, mystified. I thought for sure I had blown it. “Seriously?” is all I can think of to say.
“Yes, seriously.” He leans forward, enveloping his arms around my neck and kissing my cheek. It’s a weird angle, bound to be uncomfortable, but I sink into his hold anyway. “I know I shouldn’t get my hopes up, but…” He tails off, the murmur of his voice trickling down my neck.
He pulls away, still squeezing my shoulder, and I smile. It seems to be getting easier with each moment; each radiant smile he sends me over a coffee mug or baby magazine spread in front of us. There’s still that part of me that’s hesitant, the part of me that’s not so sure this will ever go away, but I know I can’t spend my life running from it either. I’ve done countless things over the years to do just that, all of which have failed horrendously. It’s time to accept it, do my best and move on with my life. To stop letting my dad’s choices control mine.
I wait a moment, and then while sliding the magazine over to me, I say, “Disney sounds good.”
*
Brendon spends the next week running around the house in flurry, dusting and washing and vacuuming even the furthest, most unvisited corners of our basement for Amanda’s visit that Friday. Once again, Brendon tells me to stay out of his way, which I accept without any questions.
Even though it’s only been a week, her belly seems rounder, more real when she appears on our doorstep. Brendon ushers her around, showing her every room in our house and more, while I mimic and confirm everything he says with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. Naturally, he spends extra time showing her the studio - it’s unnecessary, I’m sure, since considering the chances of the baby even being down their the first ten years of it’s life are highly improbable. Brendon’s uneasy about letting me touch the instruments sometimes, and half of it’s mine.
At every five minute interval, one of the many plates of foods he’s been slaving over, seems to magically appear in his hands. He insists she eats sandwich after pastries after fruit-cup until she looks like she might roll over.
When she excuses herself to the washroom, I take the opportunity to pull Brendon into the living room. “B,” I tell him, “you need to calm down. Let her breathe.”
“I’m sorry,” he whines with a hint of desperation. “I can’t help it. I just want her to like me. I mean, us.” He bites his lips, arms twitching at his sides. “Really bad, Ry.”
“And she will,” I assure him, pecking the corner of his mouth. Amanda appears at the doorway a second later, smiling vividly, and Brendon jumps back, face lighting up as if he’s a child who’s been caught taking a candy bar. It doesn’t happen often, but there’s a rare time when the Mormon inside of him will decide to show itself.
I suggest we go down to the beach, and I catch the momentary look of relief on Amanda’s face. Even Brendon looks gracious, as if it’s something that never crossed his mind.
Amanda’s five months pregnant. She tells us about the father, a mechanic three years older that wants nothing to do with the baby. She had been seeing him for a little over two months before she found out she was pregnant, and he instantly denied the chance of it being his. She swears it is, but found it pointless to argue with him any further, seeing as she isn’t keeping the baby. She makes no insinuations that we’ll be the ones keeping the baby, but she’s spending the day with us, laughing and sharing this with us, so I figure it must count for something. By the twinkle in Brendon’s eyes, he must too.
Eventually, Brendon eases down and loosens into his normal self - mostly. He’s still teetering on the brink of insanity by the time she leaves two hours later, grinning maniacally and sending her home with plates of food. Still, she gives us a smile that appears genuine, hugs us both with her baby bump between us and tells us she’ll be keeping in touch.
The second the door shuts behind her, Brendon’s squealing so high that surely only cats can hear it. He launches himself onto me without warning, limbs wrapping around me, causing me to crash into the wall. His lips fall on mine, attacking every part of my face, and in between, he says, “Oh my god! That went good, right? She’s totally going to give us her baby, right? You think? Do you think she will? Oh my god!” He doesn’t allow me the chance to reply before he’s kissing me with such force my head nearly smashes back into the wall.
I kiss him back, readjusting his weight in my arms. Brendon’s tiny, but I’d be the first to admit when it comes to muscles, I am seriously lacking.
Noticing, he kisses me once more, and drops his legs from my waist. He nudges his nose against mine, murmuring against my lips, “Do you think it went good? I wasn’t too much, was I?”
“I think it did,” I reply, honestly. “I think she liked you. Us.”
“Yeah?” He grins.
I nod, confirming. “Yeah,” I say, and peck him another kiss.
*
Four visits later, Amanda still has yet to tell us whether she wants us to be the parents or not. Either way, we take the amount of visits as a good sign, and I approve the start of the nursery that Brendon’s been hungrily circling around for the past two weeks. I suggested hiring a designer, but Brendon immediately refused. (“Nesting,” he said. “Have you not seen Juno?”)
Amanda and Brendon are out on the beach again. This time, Haley and Spencer joined, bringing Arianna in tow. As she did with us, Amanda had a brief lapse of sanity when Spencer appeared, before she immediately apologized for her sixteen year-old self. Spencer smiled and said it was no big deal, but I could tell that he appreciated it. It’s been awhile since any of us have gotten the attention that had once come so frequently, and it’s nice to be reminded every so often.
After coming back from the washroom, I wait on the patio, watching them from above. Brendon has Arianna on his lap, cooing and bouncing her in the way that makes her gurgle and blow spit bubbles at him (I didn’t know at first, but Spencer later informed me that was her happy). I know we’re forever indebted to them. Bringing a baby along to show just how sickeningly sweet Brendon is with kids will lock us in for sure.
Ten minutes into watching them, Amanda stands up, dusting the sand off her. Brendon hands Arianna to Spencer and jumps up after her, as if concerned she might fall over and die if she so much as walks a foot without assistance. However, she waves him away, and after a moment or two of hesitance, he sits back down. I consider moving and pretending I hadn’t just been spying on them, but Amanda spots me as she waddles over to the staircase and waves.
I wave back.
“Hey,” she greets as she makes it to the top of the stairs, breathing slightly laboured. “Spying on us, are you?”
“You caught me,” I admit, raising my hands in surrender.
She smiles, leaning against the railing next to me. Amanda was already pretty, but with the baby glow on top of it, she’s astonishing. I take certain comfort in this, because as shallow as I might be, I want my baby to be fucking beautiful. Her eyes drift down towards the beach, landing on Brendon who now has Arianna back on his lap. “I like him,” she says, simply.
I bite back the grin creeping across my face, and say, “Me too.”
She looks at me, squinting through the late afternoon sun. “I’m sure you can tell by all the time I’m spending here that I really like you guys.” She waits for me to nod before continuing, “And I want you two - ” She stops, taking a deep breath, and runs a hand across her bump. For a brief moment, tears circle her eyes, before she quickly blinks them away. “I know you two would be awesome parents, and you’d be able to raise the baby better than I ever could. But - ” She meets my gaze, and holds it, her own steady and serious. I drop my own, down to the beach below where Brendon has now noticed us, sneaking inconspicuous glances over his shoulder. I know he’s worried I’ll screw up like I did last time. I’m worried I’ll screw up. “Ryan, I need to know if you actually want this. There’s no question that Brendon does, but I feel like I’m getting mixed signals from you. My worst fear is giving someone my baby to take care of and love, and then have them pull out months down the road. I know you love Brendon, and I know you want him to be happy, but I need to know what would make you happy.”
“I - ” My eyes drop from hers without meaning, before I quickly realize and force them up again. I keep them there, slightly wavering. “I want it. I promise you, I do. I want to - I want to be a dad. I want a family, you know?” The last part comes out quiet, my throat suddenly dry. I’m nearly alarmed by my own words, and the honesty it carries with it. “I’ve been excited for these past few weeks. I can’t even remember the last time I was this excited, you know? I mean, I know you can’t always tell with me, but I am. We’ve been going shopping, and started preparing the nursery. And - I don’t know - ” I fall short, shrugging timidly.
She looks at me, minutes dragging on. I can faintly hear the distant chatter of their voices down below, drowned out by the waves crashing against the shore. For a second, I think I’ve said something wrong, before slowly, a small smile creeps across her lips, “I think that’s the most I’ve ever heard you say.”
Ducking my head, I laugh. “Yeah, well… I’m a man of very few words.”
“I can see that.”
Falling into a mutual silence, she looks off into the distance, face pulled into consideration. “Look,” I say after a moment, and she turns to face me. “I know I might’ve given you the wrong impression the first time I met you, but - a part of me is scared, you know? I can’t - I can’t lie about that. Just things that comes down to my own parents. Something that I shouldn’t let affect me, or at least not as long as they have, but the point is, they have, and I’m trying to change that. I know I can’t spend the rest of my life running away from their mistakes, and that just because they made them doesn’t mean I will too. Brendon’s helping me to realize that. It’s taking awhile, but I’m getting there.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
She turns to me, smiling easily. “Yeah,” she confirms. “Okay.” Without another word she pulls away from the banister, and heads for the door. “I’m just going to the washroom,” she tells me over her shoulder, and disappears.
I stare after her, confused.
*
The next day Amanda shows up to tell us she wants us to be the parents.
Brendon seems to cry for a day straight, and I might’ve even shed a tiny tear myself. Maybe.
*
A week before the due date, our house resembles Toys R’ Us on Christmas Eve, with the constant flow of Brendon’s never-ending family, as well as our friends, parading in with baby toys and blankets and pacifiers. There’s not a moment where we’re left alone. Even Brendon’s parents come in two days before, looking slightly more optimistic than they had four months prior.
With everyday that passes, every new person that comes in, and every new baby item, it becomes a little more real. A little bit more terrifying. It had all happened so quickly, that I feel as if my brain is still only halfway through processing, I’m going to be a dad.
Brendon’s glowing in a way an expecting mother would be, and there’s been a few times in these past few months I’ve caught him with his hand resting on his belly. At first I didn’t know whether to be alarmed for his mental health, or endeared. In the end, I decided to go with endeared.
The day before the due-date, it’s Shane who sits across the table from us, all smiles and cotton candy (“Who’s going to film your first few days of parenthood?” he asked over the phone that previous week. “Not you.” Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t refuse that.)
Now, don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I hate him, or have anything against him for that matter. After all, he tends to make that pretty impossible, by doing things like picking out all the marshmallows in Count Chocola for me when I was sick, amd no one else would even talk to me. However, there’s just something a little off to me about remaining close friends with someone your husband-to-be had sex with before. I mean, you don’t see me meeting up with Z for coffee, or going on shopping trips with Keltie, do you? Plus, you add in that whole awkward time where Brendon was fucking Shane and me at the same time. It was weird then, and it’s still weird now.
While Brendon has insisted time and time again that there’s nothing going on between them, that there wasn’t even when they were fucking, the simple fact is that Shane has seen him naked. Multiple times. He knows what he looks like when he comes. I know from experience that’s just not something you can forget. All I’m saying is that Brendon is engaged now, a few days from having a kid, and I don’t think anyone else should be picturing him during an orgasm. I’ve earned that right, haven’t I?
“So, Mr. Hollywood now, huh?” Brendon asks, breaking off a piece of cookie and pops it into his mouth. I sneak a look to make sure Shane isn’t staring. Brendon can be very enticing while eating.
“Yeah, right.” Shane laughs, grabbing for his own cookie and not looking at Brendon’s mouth. Or, maybe he did and I just missed it. I tighten my grip on Brendon’s thigh. “If it makes it to theatres it’ll just be one of those small, little indie places. You know, for hipsters and college students.”
“Whatever. That’s still awesome.”
He shrugs his shoulders, smiling modestly. He’s still wearing that stupid hat he was wearing six years ago when I met him. “What about you?” he asks, looking between the two of us. “Making any music lately?”
Brendon looks at me, and shrugs. “Not really. Mostly just messing around when we have the time. And now with baby coming…” He shrugs again, but there’s a faint disappointment in his eyes, as if he’s only now realizing that a screaming, pooping, crying baby doesn’t leave much time for the studio.
“You could teach your baby how to play instruments at a young age, and then you can all tour as one of those creepy, family bands,” Shane suggests.
Brendon laughs, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, okay.” As if the internal alarm inside his head suddenly goes off, he looks toward the clock hanging above us and stands up, fishing his phone from his pocket. “I’m just going to check in on Amanda.” It seems as the due-date gets closer, the time interval in which to call her increases every fifteen minutes. He’s down to every half an hour now. I’m sure she’s as desperate as ever to get the thing out of her so he can shut the fuck up and stop calling her. I’ve tried intervening once, but he only shrugged me off and locked himself in the bathroom to talk to her in peace.
He disappears into the kitchen, leaving me alone with Shane. Neither of us say anything at first. I stare down at the table while he munches on cookies, and I wonder if it would be too obvious if I suddenly got up and ran into the kitchen.
“So…”
“So,” I echo.
“You think it’ll be a boy, huh?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I’m undecided, but mostly, yeah.”
I am almost entirely alone in thinking this. Every single person from Brendon to his family to our friends are entirely convinced it’s a girl. I was sure Amanda had thought so too, until she pulled me aside a few weeks ago, and whispered, “Between you and me, I think it’s a boy too.” If it does end up being a boy, he’ll be one baby boy with a lot of pink stuff. I mean, I’m all for the kid being and doing what he wants, but I don’t want him to grow up with a complex or anything.
We fall into silence as we listen to Brendon chatting away in the adjoining room. I can’t think of anything to say, and there’s not particularly anything I want to say, so I just don’t.
Fortunately, Brendon returns soon after, saying, “She was napping. Still. She needs to be awake so she can push that baby out of her.”
“Relax,” I tell him gently, handing taking back refuge on his thigh. “You have a whole other day before you’re allowed to get antsy.” As if forgetting Shane is sitting across from us, I lean over to peck him a kiss, only to be reminded by a click and a bright light that flashes before my eyelids.
I pull back, and glare.
Camera still attached to his face, Shane shoots us an innocuous grin. “Well, you have to have some pictures of the loving parents for the kids to get embarrassed about.”
“In that case…” Brendon says, smiling. He attaches his lips to my cheek as Shane snaps another picture.
I can’t help but smile.
*
Three days past the due-date, there’s still no sign of the baby. Brendon’s going so crazy that if I could tranquilize him and wake him up just minutes before the birth, I would, just to spare us all some sanity.
Over the past couple days he’s come up with numerous inane theories, springing from, “Maybe the baby knows she’s giving it up, and is planning on staying in her as long as possible. I read that they can totally hear inside the womb,” to my favourite, “Maybe Amanda actually gave birth already, and she doesn’t want to give us the baby, so she’s pretending she hasn’t yet so she doesn’t have to let us down.”
I attempt to distract him with sex (“Once the baby comes, the sex stops. I mean, just gone, man,” Spencer had warned me sullenly, over a shared joint the previous week. So, I figured I have to get in as much as we can now). However, even that doesn’t stop him, because every few minutes he’ll reach for his phone sitting on the pillow next to us to see if she called.
Finally, on the fourth day, we get a text from Amanda telling us her water broke. On the way to the hospital, Brendon goes over a never-ending list of things to go wrong. “Are you sure we’ve gotten everything for the nursery? Maybe we should’ve gotten that musical duck. Do you think? Maybe you can run and get that. What if Amanda changes her mind, and wants to keep it? Then what? Or what if we don’t know what we’re doing? What if we kill the baby? Oh my god, Ryan. I don’t know what I’m doing! I don’t know how to raise a baby! I’m going to kill it!”
“Brendon,” I start, steady as I can manage, gripping onto the steering wheel for support. “Come on.” It’s only been a few weeks since those very thoughts were running rampant through my head, and it feels surreal - as well as mildly terrifying - now that we’ve suddenly switched roles. While the majority of my anxieties have been pushed away, unwanted and nearly forgotten, there are still remnants that linger, sparked by Brendon’s words. Swallowing, I push the panic creeping in my gut and reach for his hand, squeezing.
“Don’t be ridiculous, B. We’ve got the nursery and more, and I think the musical bear is enough for now. Also, I don’t think Amanda will be changing her mind, and I really doubt that we’ll kill the baby, all right? We’ve been to enough classes and read enough books to raise an army of children. Besides, you were already well equipped before that anyway. Plus, Spencer and Haley are just a few houses down if we feel we have no idea what we’re doing.”
From the corner of my eye, I watch as the air deflates from Brendon’s chest. He still looks worried though, face white as he stares out the window in front of us. The ocean and two story homes now replaced with buildings that tower above, poking holes into the blue sky. “I’m sorry. I’m just - Fuck. I’m so nervous.”
“And you think I’m not?” I return.
He sighs, moving some hair out of his face. Purple bags sit underneath his eyes from the lack of sleep over the past week, due to his phone permanently attached to his hand. I squeeze his fingers once more, and say, “I’m pretty sure every person who’s about to come a parent gets nervous. Even Spencer and Haley, remember?”
“Yeah,” he nods, exhaling deeply. “Yeah, you’re right.”
“It’s too late to turn back now,” I say. “We’re in for the long run now.”
Coming to a stop at a red light, I turn towards him. I watch as his shoulders visibly begin to loosen, and he looks at me, as if savouring my words, locking them away from another time. His hand moves in mine, sticky with sweat, and I feel the warm band slide against my skin, soothing me. “Yeah,” he says, smiling wide as the light turns green, “The long run.”
*
I last exactly five minutes cowering in the corner of the delivery room, before deciding it’s not my thing. Brendon looks disappointed as I dash for the door, although understanding, because even he looks partially horrified as Amanda yells in pain next to him. He and her mother sit on opposite sides of her, offering their hand as a squeeze toy whenever a contraction comes along or a nurse shoves their fingers between her elevated legs.
Childbirth is supposed to be this beautiful, magical thing, but to me it only looks painful and highly nauseating.
It’s been nearly twelve hours since we were first called down to the hospital. I know these things can take a long time, but this is just getting ridiculous, and I’m not even the one screaming in pain while strangers poke at my vagina.
In the waiting room, I collapse onto the chair next to Spencer, pushing my face into my hands. Spencer pats my shoulder consolingly, and says, “It’ll all be over soon enough.”
“Like you’d know. You only had to go through eight hours of this,” I grumble miserably between my fingers.
“Neither of it matters in the end.”
I sigh, knowing he’s probably right.
We pass the next hour by watching one of those ridiculous soap opera’s playing on the TV above. Haley had been here a few hours prior, but had left once it started to get late and Arianna fussy. She promised she’d be back bright and early the next morning to see the new baby girl. I was too exhausted to argue that it was a boy.
The door to the delivery room opens, and Brendon appears, looking more disheveled and worn-out than even I feel. I jump, thinking it might be time, but he folds onto the chair next to me. He presses his face into my shoulder, nose ghosting against my neck. “Make it end,” he whines.
I take his hand onto my lap, and squeeze.
Spencer reaches over the back of my chair, ruffling Brendon’s hair. “Hey, you guys are doing awesome. Trust me, I wanted to kill myself waiting for Arianna, but once she was born, she was so worth it.”
Brendon swallows, and pushes his face further into my neck.
“Here,” Spencer offers, standing, “I’ll go get you guys coffee from the cafeteria. I’ll be right back.” He gives me one last pat on the shoulder, and I send him what I can of an appreciative smile.
“I’m scared,” Brendon mumbles into my neck, soft and vulnerable.
“Bren, come on. You’ll do fine. You know you - ”
“No, I mean - ” He sighs, pulling his head from my shoulder. He tucks his bottom lip between his lips, and looks at me with round, scared eyes. “She’s going through all of this, and - I mean, for what? Just to give this baby up to us? What if - What if after all this she decides it’s not worth it? That - ” He shakes his head and swallows, eyes drifting down the hallway from me.
“Hey,” I say softly, smoothing my hand through his hair. He sinks into it. “Come on. Don’t think like that, okay? You’re just getting yourself all worked up and upset over something that you don’t even know is going to happen.” But, the truth is, the thought had crossed my mind while seeing her crying out in pain on the hospital bed. Who would want to go through all that pain and suffering, just to hand off the baby, knowing you might not ever see it again?
“I’m so scared, Ry. I want this so bad.”
“And so do I,” I reply, truthfully, fingers still combing through the back of his hair, “but you’ve got to stop doing this. You’re going to be a wreck all throughout parenthood if you always expect the worst.”
Sighing, he turns to look at me. “I hate it when you’re right.” He pouts.
“Not that it happens very often or anything.”
He smiles, leaning in to brush his lips against mine. “Love you,” he murmurs.
“Love you too.”
Spencer returns a few minutes later with two cups of steaming coffee in tow. He hands one to each of us. “Gourmet hospital coffee to the new dads.”
Brendon grins, and holds his cup up in the air towards me. “I’ll toast to that.”
I laugh, knocking the Styrofoam against his, and chug back half the beverage in one gulp. What normally tastes like ground dirt, now tastes like Columbia’s finest.
Once Brendon finishes his drink, he smoothes his hand along my shoulder and stands up, sighing. “Well, I guess I better go back in there and watch our baby girl be born.”
“Baby boy,” I correct, and he rolls his eyes, leaning down to peck me a kiss.
“Are you coming in?”
I shake my head, eyes widening as I hear her scream from inside. “Hearing her scream like that only makes me scared for the demon child that’s going to come clawing out of her.”
“Oh shut up.” He smacks me across the head, rolling his eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile on his lips. Spencer snorts. “Well, I’m going back in there, anyway,” he says, but even he looks scared.
I reach forward and hold onto his hip, thumb pressing into the bone. “Come and tell me as soon as he’s born.”
“She,” Brendon says, as he skips back towards the door, grinning wickedly. He doesn’t give me a chance to argue, before the door is closing behind him.
*
An hour later, the door to the delivery room opens again. Except this time, it’s not Brendon that stares back at me, but a grinning nurse instead. “Congratulations, dad,” she beams.
I blank out for a few, good moments, until Spencer starts pushing at my back, saying, “Go, man! Go on! You’re a fucking dad!”
I’m a fucking dad.
My feet practically lead themselves as I stumble across the waiting room where the nurse ushers me inside. Brendon’s standing near the end of the bed, where Amanda lies collapsed into the covers, her mother stroking her hair. As I get closer, I see he’s grinning down at a bundle of hospital blankets bunched in his arms, tears rolling down his cheeks.
He doesn’t seem aware of my presence until I’m standing next to him, and even then, he only looks up at me for a brief second before his eyes fall back down. In his arms, covered in blankets, a tiny, pink face peaks its way out. “Meet your son,” he murmurs.
I curl my hand around his hip, and press my lips against his temple, staring down at the baby - our baby - in awe.
I’m a dad. Brendon’s a dad. We’re dads. Together.
Before I realize it, I feel a tear drop slip from my eye, and then the other. I reach forward, running my thumb against his smooth cheek, and then his tiny fingers, not even half the size of my pinkies. “Hi baby boy,” I whisper. “I guess your dad was right after all.”
Brendon laughs, sniffling, and tilts his head to look at me. “You want to hold him?”
I nod, just barely. I have to blink a few times to clear my eyes, as well as my head. Brendon slides him into my arms, carefully, and he’s so tiny, so delicate, I’m worried I’ll break him on touch.
Wrapping his arms around my middle, Brendon presses his forehead against mine as we look down at our son, trapped between our bodies. His eyes blink open, big and brown. They remind me of Brendon’s.
As I reach down, running my fingers back over his tiny hands, Brendon’s dance across my cheek. “You’re a dad.” He smiles, another silent tear escaping.
I brush my mouth against his, tasting salt on my lips, and murmur, “We’re dads.”
*
Two minutes after seven on Saturday morning, I’m awoken by sharp crying coming through the monitor next to my head. It’s better than six at least, even five, which he has been making a record of these past two months, but still, I feel like I’ve barely slept at all.
Brendon whines, hugging his pillow over his head. “Noah,” he groans through a mouthful of cotton, “let daddy sleep. Just for once. Please.”
Rolling over, I laugh and press my mouth to his bare shoulder. “Go back to sleep. I’ll get him.”
“Ngh,” Brendon says into the pillow. I don’t take it as an argument as I roll out of bed, taking the baby monitor with me.
Since Noah’s room is directly across from ours, I pull the door shut, hoping Brendon will be able to fall back asleep. He’s slept even less than me these past two months since we’ve brought Noah home. He’s too busy trying to be super dad, and too anxious to even when he has the chance. He’s only now beginning to realize that Noah isn’t going to disappear the second he takes his eyes off him.
His room is nearly pitch black from the blinds we installed, and I open one across from the crib, early morning light flooding into the room. It’s Disney themed, like we wanted. We even hired a professional to paint different Disney characters along each wall, and despite our anxiety (“I swear to God I’m painting over it if it sucks,” Brendon warned, chewing his thumbnail until it was nearly non-existent. “I don’t care how much we spent,”) it had turned out better than we had hoped.
His crying falters for a moment, and I think that he might actually stop, before he starts up again at an even higher level. I’m still amazed how such tiny things can make such loud noises.
“Sh, Noah. Dad’s here,” I say softly, picking him up from inside his crib and hold him to my chest. “Dad’s tired, but he’s here.” I rock him, trying to calm him, but if he quiets at all, I can’t tell. “It’s too early for this. You want daddy to sleep so he can play with you all day, don’t you?”
He stops to hiccup, then whimper, and begins to cry again, but it’s a notch quieter this time, at least.
“How about we change your diaper, will that make you feel better? Do you promise dad you’ll stop crying then?” I place him down onto the table, reaching for a diaper on the shelf. He begins to cry harder. “Oh, sh,” I hush him, unbuttoning his onesie, “Life isn’t that hard.”
For the first week he was home, I refused to change his diaper. Brendon would roll his eyes at me, tell me I’d have to eventually, but I continually refused. But then, a week later he passed out on the couch after nearly a week of insomnia, and I couldn’t call up Spencer because Haley and him were visiting her parents in Vermont (okay, and he’d laugh in my face and hang up on me, anyway) so I knew I had no choice. I can’t say I like changing disgusting, poopy diapers, but at least I’m able to tolerate it now.
By the time I’ve changed him, his crying has gone down to only a few whimpers. “Ah, that’s much better now, huh?” I rub his belly, and blow a raspberry against his skin. He stops his whimpering to smile, and I blow another one before he can start crying again. “There we go. I knew you could smile somewhere in those tears.”
Smiling is a recent development, only happening last week while Brendon was playing peek-a-boo with him in the living room. I tried for the next three days to get him to smile for me, doing everything I knew possible, until he finally did while passing gas, of all things, and now he won’t stop.
“Should we get you a bottle before you start crying on me again? Yes, I think we should.” Baby talk was something I never saw myself doing until Noah came along. I started before I realized, but then could never get myself to stop. It’s impossible. “Let’s go get you a nice, warm bottle, and then we can snuggle up on the couch and watch cartoons. Will that make you happy?” I scoop him into my arms, pressing a kiss to his forehead before he reaches up and tugs on my hair. That’s also another recent development. “Ah, yes, dad loves you too. He just doesn’t always love your smelly diapers, that’s all.”
When I turn, Brendon’s leaning against the doorway, smirking with a bottle in his hands. I nearly jump and drop Noah in fright. “You suck. I told you to stop doing that.”
Laughing, he enters the room, bending down to peck Noah a kiss and then me. “I can’t help it. It’s just too adorable watching you two when you don’t think anyone is looking.”
I roll my eyes, and grab the bottle from him, feeling heat begin to trickle up my neck. “Oh, shut up.” I press the bottle to Noah’s mouth, and he immediately takes to it, sucking it back. “You’re supposed to be in bed.”
He shrugs, and bats an innocent eyelash. “Like I’d miss spying on you,” he jokes, and moves a strand of hair from my face affectionately. He presses his front against my side, not to squish Noah, and rests his head on my shoulder, wrapping his fingers around Noah’s small ankle.
We all agreed on an open adoption with Amanda. We’re to send pictures every month, a phone call every second, but at the moment, she doesn’t want anything more than that. We’re fine with that, but even though Brendon would never admit it, I know he worries that one day she’ll decide she wants him back. She’s assured us she never would, that he’s ours now, he was always are, but there’s always a chance. He is legally ours now, and it wouldn’t be quite as easy as coming over and taking him from us, but still, she’s the birth mother, something we aren’t. It’s not something I chose to think about though, because even in these two short months, he already feels like he’s ours, in all ways.
“Our baby’s so cute,” Brendon says, reflectively. He smiles against my jaw, fingers drawing patterns against my bare hip, Noah blinks up at us, big eyes and long eyelashes, still sucking away on his bottle.
I smile, pecking a kiss to the tip of his nose, and say, “The cutest.”
FIN.