Only You
Page 21
Maybe all this time, it was those women leaving Nate’s apartment in the morning who’d had it right, and smug, self-important little me who’d had it wrong.
But how could I be sure?
Eight
Nate
Sunday morning, I woke up determined to do what I’d promised myself and stay away from Emme. I wouldn’t text her with updates. I wouldn’t call her for advice. I wouldn’t invite her over to help. I needed to do things on my own, even if I was going on less than five hours of sleep and craved nothing but caffeine and sugar.
During Paisley’s morning nap, I emailed my boss and told her I needed time off for a family emergency. She replied very quickly that she hoped things were all right and that it shouldn’t be a problem to cover my caseload for the week. But she requested I come in on Monday morning, if at all possible, to get things in place. I told her I would let her know by the end of the day if I couldn’t get there, then worried all afternoon about how I was going to make it happen. Did I take Paisley with me? I imagined myself walking through the lobby doors of the firm’s building wearing a suit, tie, and the baby sling and wanted to die. But as I had no one to watch her yet, I didn’t know if I’d have a choice. I figured I could ask Emme and that she’d probably say yes since Monday was her day off, but I didn’t want to.
After Paisley woke up and drank her bottle, I took her to the grocery store, which turned out to be a much bigger ordeal than I had anticipated, and I had anticipated a pretty fucking big ordeal. First, the carts at the grocery store didn’t have those built in seats for infants like the carts at Babies“R”Us, and I struggled to balance her car seat in the front compartment where little kids were supposed to sit. After a few minutes of grappling and sweating and muttering curse words under my breath, I was rescued by a merciful woman who took pity on me. “Here," she said. “Let me show you how to do it.”
When Paisley’s car seat was secure, I thanked her. “I’m new at this dad thing," I said apologetically. “Still learning how to do everything."
Things went okay for the next twenty minutes or so, but it was taking me forever to shop because I couldn’t leave the cart and run to grab something I’d forgotten two aisles back—and I kept forgetting everything (sleep deprivation is no joke). It’s not like I could say to Paisley, stay right here, I’ll be right back, and dash over to the produce section again. I had to bring her with me every time.
Then, of course, she decided to shit herself right in the middle of the canned vegetable aisle. Her face turned a shade of red that rivaled the crushed tomatoes, and she grunted like a four-hundred-pound deadweight lifter. Other shoppers, who previously had all stopped to tell me how cute she was, now seemed to avoid us. When she was finished, the stench surrounded us like a toxic cloud everywhere we went. It was so bad I ended up cutting the shopping trip short and running for the checkout without even hitting the dairy aisle, even though I was out of eggs and milk. Then, as we were waiting to be rung up, she decided to start screaming over absolutely nothing and wouldn’t stop.
“Sorry," I said to the cashier. And the customer ahead of me. And the customer behind me. And the woman one lane over. And anyone I passed on my way out to the parking lot.
I put her in the car first and then loaded the grocery bags into my trunk. It was on the way home that I wondered how I was supposed to get her and all of the grocery bags up to my apartment without the big cart. “How the hell do people do this?” I muttered out loud.
Her answer was a fresh round of wailing. I didn’t blame her.
In the end, I made the first trip up to my apartment carrying as many grocery bags as I could in one hand and her car seat in the other. Then I put her in the stroller, wheeled her down to the parking garage, and loaded up. Bags were hanging off my arms and bulging out the bottom of the stroller, but I managed to get everything in one trip.
The one good thing that day was that I managed to bathe her all by myself without doing harm to either one of us or making too big a mess in the kitchen. In fact, she actually seemed to enjoy getting her hair washed, and when she was dry and dressed in a clean sleeper, I sat her on my lap and brushed her hair for the first time. I couldn’t get it to lie completely flat, but it looked pretty fucking cute. She seemed to like that too, although she kept trying to grab the brush out of my hand. When I was done with her hair, I let her play with it, and she immediately tried to eat the thing. I watched her gnaw on the handle for a couple minutes, then I took out my phone and snapped a picture of her—my first.
The realization hit me that I was probably going to take thousands of photos of her in my lifetime, but this was the very first one. It choked me up a little, although I would never admit it to anyone.
Of course, the next thing I wanted to do was send the picture to someone, because what good was it to have a cute kid if you couldn’t show her off? Emme was my first thought, not just because she was the only one of my friends who knew about Paisley, but because I genuinely wanted her to see the photo. Was it breaking my vow to text it to her? It’s not like I was asking for help or anything.
Paternal pride overruled my stubbornness, and I decided to send it.
First bath on my own. We survived. I think she likes my mad hairstyling skills.
I sent the message and the photo, hoping for a quick and friendly reply. It took less than 30 seconds.
Emme: OMG! She is the cutest thing ever. Great job on the bath. Things going okay today?
I had to text with one hand, so it took me a couple minutes to write back.
Me: Yes. Grocery store was a bit hairy and smelly, but all is well. How are you?
Emme: Oh dear. Hairy and smelly? I’m fine. Cleaning my apartment and making spaghetti sauce and meatballs.
Homemade spaghetti sauce and meatballs. Jesus Christ, that sounded good. My stomach groaned with envy. Since Paisley had arrived, I was surviving on shit like chocolate-covered potato chips, dry cereal (since I’d run out of milk), raisins, lunchmeat, and cocktail olives. I hadn’t even had the time or energy to make a proper sandwich. But I didn’t want her to know that.
Me: Sounds good. Enjoy your dinner.
She didn’t text back. I set my phone aside and exhaled. It sucked not being able to be honest with her. She and I had never had to bullshit each other, and I didn’t like it. What I really wanted to say was, How about you bring that spaghetti over here and hold the baby while I pour you a drink?
But if she came over, I had a feeling I knew what would happen. I didn’t trust myself.
While Paisley took her afternoon nap in the swing, I made a few work phone calls and did laundry. I was folding some of Paisley’s things—they were so tiny in my big hands, it was ridiculous—when I wondered if I would have to move to a bigger place.
Fuck. I didn’t want to move. I loved this apartment. Everything about it said me. Except…I hardly even knew who that was at this point. Did the old me still exist? Did being a father supersede every other part of my identity? Did I have a right to live where I wanted to live without worrying if it was right for a kid? How often would she even visit? What was my life going to look like moving forward? Could I shift back and forth from old Nate to single dad Nate at will? Be one thing when she was with me and another when she wasn’t?
The walls started to close in on me, and I sank onto the couch, eyes closed. My stomach hurt. My brain hurt. How was I ever going to get used to the fact that nothing in my life would ever be the same? I didn’t want these problems. I didn’t want to move. I didn’t want to be a father.
Then I thought of Emme. What had she said to me Friday night?
If you were really the alpha male you pretend to be, you’d take responsibility for this like a grown-ass man and not fall apart like the ridiculous boy I see in front of me.
Frowning, I got to my feet again. I wasn’t fucking pretending. And I wouldn’t fall apart.
After I had stacked Paisley’s clothing beneath the changing table and put away my own laundry, I decided to make the call to my mother. Telling her would not be fun, but the longer I avoided it, the more cowardly I felt. I needed to do something that would make me feel strong. Show someone I was accepting responsibility like a man.
But how could I be sure?
Eight
Nate
Sunday morning, I woke up determined to do what I’d promised myself and stay away from Emme. I wouldn’t text her with updates. I wouldn’t call her for advice. I wouldn’t invite her over to help. I needed to do things on my own, even if I was going on less than five hours of sleep and craved nothing but caffeine and sugar.
During Paisley’s morning nap, I emailed my boss and told her I needed time off for a family emergency. She replied very quickly that she hoped things were all right and that it shouldn’t be a problem to cover my caseload for the week. But she requested I come in on Monday morning, if at all possible, to get things in place. I told her I would let her know by the end of the day if I couldn’t get there, then worried all afternoon about how I was going to make it happen. Did I take Paisley with me? I imagined myself walking through the lobby doors of the firm’s building wearing a suit, tie, and the baby sling and wanted to die. But as I had no one to watch her yet, I didn’t know if I’d have a choice. I figured I could ask Emme and that she’d probably say yes since Monday was her day off, but I didn’t want to.
After Paisley woke up and drank her bottle, I took her to the grocery store, which turned out to be a much bigger ordeal than I had anticipated, and I had anticipated a pretty fucking big ordeal. First, the carts at the grocery store didn’t have those built in seats for infants like the carts at Babies“R”Us, and I struggled to balance her car seat in the front compartment where little kids were supposed to sit. After a few minutes of grappling and sweating and muttering curse words under my breath, I was rescued by a merciful woman who took pity on me. “Here," she said. “Let me show you how to do it.”
When Paisley’s car seat was secure, I thanked her. “I’m new at this dad thing," I said apologetically. “Still learning how to do everything."
Things went okay for the next twenty minutes or so, but it was taking me forever to shop because I couldn’t leave the cart and run to grab something I’d forgotten two aisles back—and I kept forgetting everything (sleep deprivation is no joke). It’s not like I could say to Paisley, stay right here, I’ll be right back, and dash over to the produce section again. I had to bring her with me every time.
Then, of course, she decided to shit herself right in the middle of the canned vegetable aisle. Her face turned a shade of red that rivaled the crushed tomatoes, and she grunted like a four-hundred-pound deadweight lifter. Other shoppers, who previously had all stopped to tell me how cute she was, now seemed to avoid us. When she was finished, the stench surrounded us like a toxic cloud everywhere we went. It was so bad I ended up cutting the shopping trip short and running for the checkout without even hitting the dairy aisle, even though I was out of eggs and milk. Then, as we were waiting to be rung up, she decided to start screaming over absolutely nothing and wouldn’t stop.
“Sorry," I said to the cashier. And the customer ahead of me. And the customer behind me. And the woman one lane over. And anyone I passed on my way out to the parking lot.
I put her in the car first and then loaded the grocery bags into my trunk. It was on the way home that I wondered how I was supposed to get her and all of the grocery bags up to my apartment without the big cart. “How the hell do people do this?” I muttered out loud.
Her answer was a fresh round of wailing. I didn’t blame her.
In the end, I made the first trip up to my apartment carrying as many grocery bags as I could in one hand and her car seat in the other. Then I put her in the stroller, wheeled her down to the parking garage, and loaded up. Bags were hanging off my arms and bulging out the bottom of the stroller, but I managed to get everything in one trip.
The one good thing that day was that I managed to bathe her all by myself without doing harm to either one of us or making too big a mess in the kitchen. In fact, she actually seemed to enjoy getting her hair washed, and when she was dry and dressed in a clean sleeper, I sat her on my lap and brushed her hair for the first time. I couldn’t get it to lie completely flat, but it looked pretty fucking cute. She seemed to like that too, although she kept trying to grab the brush out of my hand. When I was done with her hair, I let her play with it, and she immediately tried to eat the thing. I watched her gnaw on the handle for a couple minutes, then I took out my phone and snapped a picture of her—my first.
The realization hit me that I was probably going to take thousands of photos of her in my lifetime, but this was the very first one. It choked me up a little, although I would never admit it to anyone.
Of course, the next thing I wanted to do was send the picture to someone, because what good was it to have a cute kid if you couldn’t show her off? Emme was my first thought, not just because she was the only one of my friends who knew about Paisley, but because I genuinely wanted her to see the photo. Was it breaking my vow to text it to her? It’s not like I was asking for help or anything.
Paternal pride overruled my stubbornness, and I decided to send it.
First bath on my own. We survived. I think she likes my mad hairstyling skills.
I sent the message and the photo, hoping for a quick and friendly reply. It took less than 30 seconds.
Emme: OMG! She is the cutest thing ever. Great job on the bath. Things going okay today?
I had to text with one hand, so it took me a couple minutes to write back.
Me: Yes. Grocery store was a bit hairy and smelly, but all is well. How are you?
Emme: Oh dear. Hairy and smelly? I’m fine. Cleaning my apartment and making spaghetti sauce and meatballs.
Homemade spaghetti sauce and meatballs. Jesus Christ, that sounded good. My stomach groaned with envy. Since Paisley had arrived, I was surviving on shit like chocolate-covered potato chips, dry cereal (since I’d run out of milk), raisins, lunchmeat, and cocktail olives. I hadn’t even had the time or energy to make a proper sandwich. But I didn’t want her to know that.
Me: Sounds good. Enjoy your dinner.
She didn’t text back. I set my phone aside and exhaled. It sucked not being able to be honest with her. She and I had never had to bullshit each other, and I didn’t like it. What I really wanted to say was, How about you bring that spaghetti over here and hold the baby while I pour you a drink?
But if she came over, I had a feeling I knew what would happen. I didn’t trust myself.
While Paisley took her afternoon nap in the swing, I made a few work phone calls and did laundry. I was folding some of Paisley’s things—they were so tiny in my big hands, it was ridiculous—when I wondered if I would have to move to a bigger place.
Fuck. I didn’t want to move. I loved this apartment. Everything about it said me. Except…I hardly even knew who that was at this point. Did the old me still exist? Did being a father supersede every other part of my identity? Did I have a right to live where I wanted to live without worrying if it was right for a kid? How often would she even visit? What was my life going to look like moving forward? Could I shift back and forth from old Nate to single dad Nate at will? Be one thing when she was with me and another when she wasn’t?
The walls started to close in on me, and I sank onto the couch, eyes closed. My stomach hurt. My brain hurt. How was I ever going to get used to the fact that nothing in my life would ever be the same? I didn’t want these problems. I didn’t want to move. I didn’t want to be a father.
Then I thought of Emme. What had she said to me Friday night?
If you were really the alpha male you pretend to be, you’d take responsibility for this like a grown-ass man and not fall apart like the ridiculous boy I see in front of me.
Frowning, I got to my feet again. I wasn’t fucking pretending. And I wouldn’t fall apart.
After I had stacked Paisley’s clothing beneath the changing table and put away my own laundry, I decided to make the call to my mother. Telling her would not be fun, but the longer I avoided it, the more cowardly I felt. I needed to do something that would make me feel strong. Show someone I was accepting responsibility like a man.
