Wingmen Babypalooza

by Daisy Prescott

  “Winging it and wear a seatbelt? That’s the wisdom? Reminds me of when you taught me how to drive.”

  “Pretty much.” He nods with a smile. “Your mom can probably tell you about schedules and avoiding sugar and tiring them out, but the truth is, you have to learn on the job.”

  “Kind of like welding.”

  “Hopefully avoiding open flames and melting things. At least during the first years.” He opens the door to his mini fridge under the workbench. “Want a beer?”

  I accept the bottle of Alaskan Amber he hands me. After twisting off the cap, I clink the glass against his.

  “Oh, and find a good hiding place. Garage, workshop. Preferably someplace just out of shouting range.”

  “I’m guessing you’ve reorganized your tools more times than needed over the years.”

  He sweeps the screwdrivers into a pile and dumps them back into the bottom of his toolbox. With a wink, he says, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Eventually, Nick shows up. With his short brown hair and clean cut appearance, he’s a good-looking guy. In his button down and khakis, he’s definitely working on perfecting his dad look. I wonder if Lori buys his clothes and styling products for his hair. Dad hands him a beer.

  “I was told I had ten minutes to bring you both inside so we can start the games,” he apologizes as he sips his beer. “I set the timer on my phone so we have eight minutes before the second unit will arrive.”

  “Who’s the second unit?”

  “My mother,” Dad says, his voice serious.

  I laugh at the thought of him cowering from Gramma Ellie. “I guess you never grow out of being afraid of pissing off your mom.”

  He lifts his beer. “See? My wisdom is already rubbing off on you.”

  After finishing my bottle, I chuck it into the recycling bin. “What sort of games are we talking about?”

  “If I remember from our shower, there’s the classic Guess the Contents of a Diaper. Probably a round of guessing the circumference of the baby bump. And my personal favorite, betting on gender, weight, and birthday. My advice, if you’re asking for it, is always guess chocolate and underestimate how big your wife’s waist has gotten.” Nick’s advice is basic, but smart.

  I tell him thanks and jerk my head toward the door. “Ready?”

  “Oh, and another thing. Practice your happy smile. Ooh and ahh when she opens the gifts, but don’t overdo it. And don’t ask what something is for or make jokes,” Nick continues with his advice, his brow lined with worry.

  “My happy smile?” I ask both men.

  “Show us,” Nick says.

  I smile at them, showing lots of teeth.

  “Not that. Maybe try nodding while you do it. Focus on how thrilled you are to be at the shower,” Nick advises.

  “I’m not.” I lift my eyebrows and keep smiling.

  “We can tell,” Dad says.

  “Shows that much?” I ask, feeling guilty I’m not more excited about today.

  The two of them exchange a look.

  “That bad?” I change my smile and widen my eyes.

  Dad inhales through his teeth. “That’s worse. Think about how much you love Hailey and how much you’re going to love your kid. Keep your eyes on the long game. This is a marathon.”

  Nick’s phone buzzes and he glances at the screen. “We’ve been summoned.”

  “Can’t wait!” I pump my fist.

  “This should be interesting,” Dad mutters, giving his tools a longing look.

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” I shake out my arms and roll my shoulders. “You’re both forgetting women love me. It’s my pheromones and charming personality. I’ve got this.”

  Questions I think but am smart enough not to ask during the Opening of the Gifts:

  Why ducks? They don’t exactly have a reputation for being friendly.

  What’s up with all the hippo books? Those beasts are vicious assholes.

  At what point did nipple cream become a topic for mixed company?

  When did I start using phrases like “mixed company” and sounding like Gramma Ellie?

  Who came up with this bizarre ritual in the first place?

  Would it be rude to ask my mom to get me a slice of cake?

  How many clothes does a baby need?

  And why are we the proud owners of so many blankets?

  So many blankets. And quilts and swaddling cloths and loops of cloth we can use to strap the baby to our bodies.

  Good news. I know what a Boppy is now.

  That mystery’s been solved.

  The thing’s super comfortable. I sit through the remainder of the present unwrapping with the Boppy curled around my middle.

  Hailey sags after opening the last of the gifts. A silver rattle—talk about a random gift and potential weapon. Her lids droop with exhaustion.

  Gently touching her arm, I ask, “Tired?”

  “I could nap. Who knew generosity could be so draining?” She widens her eyes to appear more awake, but then yawns, ruining the illusion.

  I glance at the huge pile of gifts. “It’s overwhelming. Why do we need so much stuff for a human who won’t do more than eat, shit, and sleep for months? I doubt kids in the middle of the Gobi Desert have a Boppy.”

  She gives me a sleepy smile. “Do we need to buy another one for you?”

  I pat the soft green fabric. “Maybe.”

  Chapter 6

  Thanksgiving is an exercise in controlled chaos. Two weeks after the shower and we all gather at my parents’ house again. Hailey’s parents join the Donnely clan, pushing our count over twenty people—not including the four foot and under crowd of pint-sized offspring.

  Per tradition, the men folk watch football while the women get the meal ready. We’re not crazy enough to try to offer assistance. It’d be like a little leaguer thinking he could pitch in the pros. Our jobs today include staying out of the way, praising the cooking, and eating seconds, even thirds to prove how thankful we are for family. Being a pro, Dad’s wearing loose fleece lounge pants with an elastic waist.

  Between sisters, mothers, grandmothers, daughters, and wives, the women in the kitchen represent every living generation of this family. More proof the Donnely men are not only not in charge, but vastly outnumbered.

  I’ve learned an important life lesson today. Joking about being barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen isn’t funny if your wife is all three of those things. At least not to the woman in question.

  Thirty-six weeks pregnant, Hailey insists on supervising from her seat at the kitchen table. I think she’s in charge of rolling silverware in cloth napkins this year. Last time I checked on her from the safety of the hall, she had her socked feet propped on a chair and two baskets in front of her.

  Okay, so she’s not truly barefoot.

  I dash into the hub of female power to grab a fresh bag of tortilla chips for the seven layer dip. Like in Wonder Woman, I’m Steven Trevor crashing into the Amazons’ island. With a quick kiss to Hailey’s forehead, I check in on my own wonder woman without hovering. “You having fun?”

  “Sorting place settings is the most boring thing ever,” she whispers. “I’m thinking about stealing a few sips of your mom’s white zin when she’s not looking.”

  I dip my chin and frown. “I’d prefer my daughter wait until at least college to develop a taste for pink wine.”

  At the word daughter, all hum of activity in the room ceases.

  My eyes widen as I stare at Hailey. In a stage whisper even my grandmother can hear, I ask, “They heard me, didn’t they?”

  Hailey loudly sighs. “He’s teasing you. We don’t know. I swear.”

  My mom’s exhale is loud enough to carry across the kitchen. “Thomas Clifford, it’s not nice to tease.”

  “I’m an elderly woman,” Gramma chides me before softening her tone. “I might not make it another month. You can tell me and I’ll take it to my grave.”

  “Nice try.” Gi
ving my grandmother a disappointed shake of my head, I stand and then walk toward her. “You’re in perfect health and will probably outlive us all. Plus, you’re the first number at the top of the Donnely family phone tree, aka the grapevine. I love you, but you’re completely untrustworthy.”

  “It’s so old-fashioned not to find out.” My middle sister Cara gives her unwanted opinion.

  I stare up at the ceiling and exhale. “Didn’t we go over this at the baby shower? We’re not finding out. And, Gramma, don’t try to get the info out of our doctor again while she’s at the grocery store.”

  Gramma Ellie widens her eyes into an expression that mirrors my own attempts to appear innocent. I must get it from her. “Who told you? Was it one of those gossips? Sally?”

  “Our obstetrician did, Mrs. Donnely. At our last appointment. Said you were very persistent,” Hailey says, her voice soft.

  Gramma huffs. “That’s ridiculous. I was just making conversation in the cashier’s line. As one does. People used to be more friendly around here.” She busies herself with opening a can of fried onions and sprinkling them over the top of her green bean casserole.

  I make eye contact with my mother, who shrugs as she sips her glass of wine. Sighing, I say, “I don’t get what the big deal is.”

  “You won’t tell us the gender. Or the name. You’re ruining all the fun.” Mom’s disappointment’s clear in her voice.

  “Lori didn’t find out either.” I throw my youngest sister under the bus like we’re seven and five again.

  “Yeah, and I kind of wished we’d found out before Noah was born. Easier to plan things. Definitely for the next kiddo.”

  “Are you trying?” Amy asks, her voice full of excitement.

  “You basically asked Lori if she’s having lots of unprotected sex. In front of Mom, Gramma, and Mrs. King.” I drop my jaw open in faux shock.

  My mother-in-law pats my shoulder, her green eyes full of amusement. “Tom, I know how babies are made.”

  Jesus on a saltine. I glance at Hailey, who is silently shaking with silent laughter as she focuses on her task of bundling silverware inside napkins. The woman could get a job rolling cigars. She’s very good with her hands.

  I need to switch the channel in my head from Hailey’s manual dexterity back to the topic. “What’s the big deal? You have other grandkids you can fawn over.”

  My oldest sister, Amy, snorts. “It’s because you’re the boy.”

  “That’s not true,” Mom argues. “You only become a parent once for the first time. This is special. And don’t twist my words, Amy. I love each and every grandchild with my whole heart.”

  “Oh, please. Tom’s always been your favorite.” Lori takes a big sip of her own wine. I notice two empty bottles on the counter already.

  “I don’t have a favorite,” Mom attempts to defend herself. After brushing her hands on her apron, she settles them on her hips, glaring at my sisters.

  Amy and Cara refuse to look at me. We’re close, but old family dynamics still exist. Lori’s the baby, I’m the boy, and Amy has always been an adult. Cara’s a classic middle child, lost between the bossy older sister and the obnoxious younger brother. She’s great at making peace but even better at wisely picking her fights.

  “I can’t help it if I’m the most charming, smartest, and good looking of all.” I’m safe to speak the truth because Hailey’s the only one with access to knives at the moment.

  Small objects pelt the side of my head and torso. Cara and Amy are throwing pecans at me.

  “Ouch! I’m under attack.” I dive behind Hailey, using her as a wall of defense.

  “You’re hiding behind your pregnant wife?” Amy scoffs. “Oh, Tom. You still haven’t learned to stand up and defend yourself. When he was little, he’d always start crying and immediately run off to Mom or Gramma the second we picked on him.”

  “It’s true.” Nodding her head, Cara agrees.

  “Keep talking about me like I’m not here and we’ll have a repeat of the Great Mashed Potato War from two years ago.”

  Hailey ducks her head to smother her giggles.

  “You wouldn’t dare.” Mom brandishes a spoon at me. “I can still see the spots on the wall.”

  “I knew better than to dare enter your lair.” I eye a bowl of crab dip sitting on the counter. “I’ll leave you to your lady party.”

  Stepping closer to the dip, I give my mom a quick kiss on the cheek. “Love you.”

  Before she realizes what I’m up to, I grab the dip and run out of the room.

  “Share that with the rest of the guys!” Amy yells from the kitchen.

  Like I’m going to eat an entire bowl of Gramma’s famous crab dip by myself.

  Okay, it’s happened before, but only once.

  Flopping on the couch next to Dad, I set the bowl on the coffee table. Among my own kind, I relax into the cushions.

  Hailey’s dad is in the recliner. Nick and Doug, two out of three of my brothers-in-law, are on the other side of the sectional. Sam, one of the nephews, is sprawled on the floor in front of Dad’s giant TV.

  “Where are the chips?” Nick asks.

  I blow out a breath. “Shit. You’re going to have to get them yourself. I can’t go back in there. Maybe ever.”

  Nick and Dad laugh at me before Nick suggests, “Send Greg when he gets back from the bathroom.”

  Excellent. Brothers-in-law are safe from the hen pecking because of their lack of shared DNA.

  A few minutes later, Greg steps into the room. Tall and working a dad bod, he’s an all-around “good guy,” who happens to resemble Seth Rogan’s more handsome brother.

  I stop him before he can sit down. “While you’re up, can you grab the tortilla chips and maybe some more of those crackers in the kitchen?”

  He gives me a sidelong look. “You were supposed to get them. Did you get yourself kicked out of the kitchen again?”

  Everyone but me thinks this is hysterical.

  “No, but for the future peace of familial relations, it’s probably best I stay right here for now.” I slide down until the back of my neck rests on the top of the cushions.

  Greg shrugs and ambles into the den of lionesses. He returns a minute later, carrying chips, crackers, and a tray of cocktail weenies stabbed through their middles with toothpicks.

  I try not to take it personally, but reflexively cross my legs anyway.

  “What happened in there?” Dad asks quietly.

  “Why is it always my fault?”

  “Baby stuff getting to you?” he asks, picking up a tiny hot dog and twirling it around.

  “Busybodies are pressuring us to find out if the baby is a boy or a girl.” I eye the wee sausage and decide it’s the most appropriate snack for everyone’s obsession today.

  “I don’t really understand it. Sure, I wanted a son, but I was happy when each of my kids were born healthy.” Dad happily munches on the new snack.

  “Is that true or just something you say?” I hand him another weenie and the bowl of bbq dipping sauce.

  “You’ll find out soon enough how quickly your life can change. We never thought you’d settle down, then Hailey blew up your world. If you think you feel love now, wait until you hold your child.” I swear his eyes get a little misty as he speaks.

  We sit quietly as halftime finishes and the game starts again. Lost in my head, I barely pay attention to the plays and couldn’t tell you any details of the game other than who’s playing.

  My two-year-old ginger nephew, Noah, comes tearing into the room like a shopper into Walmart’s Black Friday sale. Takes me a few seconds to realize he’s butt-naked from the waist down.

  “Hey, little dude.” I trap him with my legs as he tries to round the coffee table.

  Lightly squeezing, I immobilize him. Tiny man has some serious finger strength as he grabs at my jeans and attempts to free himself. I grimace when he manages to pull on my leg hair through the fabric, but I don’t release him. When his face turns
the same color as his hair, I know he’s going to blow.

  “Hey,” I speak slowly. “Where are you going?”

  He pauses in his attempt to free himself and says, “Fuck.”

  Pretty sure there isn’t a place in the scrapbook for Baby’s First Curse Word.

  Dad snorts beside me while Nick coughs and sputters on his beer.

  “You teach him that?” Dad asks as Noah repeats himself.

  “He’s saying truck,” Nick answers with a sigh.

  “Sure he is. Do you want your truck?” I ask my pantsless nephew.

  “Fuck,” Noah says in his little voice. “Fuck!”

  “Noah Donnely Crawford!” Lori shouts from the door. She’s standing there with a fresh diaper in one hand and tiny pants in the other. “Diaper and pants first, then you can play with your truck. Tr-uck.”

  “Fuck?” Noah repeats.

  “Tr,” Lori stresses the t and r.

  “Fuck?” Noah asks.

  I can’t take much more without full out laughing.

  “If you think this is so funny, one of you can finish changing him.” Lori hands Nick the pants and diaper.

  He tosses them to me. “Tom needs the practice.”

  “Seriously? Everyone acts like putting a diaper on is super difficult. We spent an hour on diapering and swaddling at Baby 101.”

  “Then you should be a master. I’ll time you.” Nick pulls out his phone.

  “Asshole,” I mutter under my breath.

  “Asso,” Noah echoes. “Asso.”

  “Wonderful,” Lori says from behind us. “At least put his diaper on before he pees all over you.”

  My legs spring open, allowing Noah to escape. On the loose again, he stalls as he tries to scramble over my dad’s feet, giving me the chance to scoop him up.

  “No,” he pleads as he struggles in my arms. “Noo.”

  “Listen, we do this fast and you get your truck sooner.” I use my no nonsense allowed voice.

  Nick softly snorts. “Never bargain with a toddler.”

  Parenting advice from a guy whose kid swears like a pantsless trucker? Give me a break.