The Plight Before Christmas(12)

I’ve now accepted that any child in my life would be produced by my siblings—and that is enough. And it has been. Mostly. But every now and then, I get the feeling that I’ve missed something big, a rite of passage as a woman in the human experience.

When I hold Peyton in my arms, I feel I’ve missed nothing.

I pull off his sock and study the plump ridge on the top of his foot before running my finger over it. He jerks it away, and I giggle, murmuring into his hair. “Come on, little moo-moo, let Auntie see those Jersey Cow eyes. Let me see them.”

He roots into my neck, perfect pink lips agape as if he’s milk drunk. I gently nudge him. “Wake up for me, baby boy. I need you to see me before your sister does my clown makeup and I scare you half to death.”

Unable to wake him without feeling a villain, I stare out the window at the falling snow, listening to the human noise below. My father with his staple gun just below us, my mother in the kitchen using her mixer while listening to Brenda Lee, and the sound of the garage door closing as my sister christens the old dusty boxes with a bit of Bob Marley.

For a brief second, I get a glimpse—a memory of pounding down the stairs on Christmas morning, seeing my grandparents in their rockers, their champagne glasses full as they greeted us while we screamed like banshees. Our parents sidled up next to them on the love seat, champagne glasses of their own in hand.

Clouded in the moment, I jerk back when blinding pain shoots from my eyeball to my temple, the squeaky voice of the culprit sounding out the name of the appendage he just damaged as I try to hold in my yelp. “Eyeeee,” Peyton squeals. Eye watering and blinking repeatedly, I laugh as the baby straightens in my lap and head butts my chin to situate himself before he stabs me again, “Mose, mouph, cheen.” In pain but unable to resist, I squeeze him to me. “Hey baby boy, did you have a good nap?”

“Mep.”

“What?” I laugh out incredulous. “Did you say yep?”

He repeats the names of my features, completely unsatisfied he got no praise the first time around.

Typical man—and egomaniac.

“That’s right, baby. You’re sooo smart.”

“Whit, do it,” he instructs.

I nuzzle his neck, and he exhales his protest for me to get on with it. “Whit do it!”

“Okay, fine. So demanding.” I manage to wink out a soothing tear knowing my eye has to be as red as the little cherub’s hair. “I call this,” I press my finger to his forehead. “For-bender,” I drawl out, lowering my finger next to his eye, “eye winker,” I press my finger to his cheek, “Tom tinker, nose dropper, chin chomper, and this is your, “Ollie gollie, gollie.” He shrieks and laughs as I dig my fingers into his neck.

“Gain!”

“Kisses first.” He grips my face, his sharp little fingernails digging into my jaw just before delivering a slobbery kiss, and I soak it in as he covers me.

“Good kisses. Thank you.”

“Mep,” he says simply, wiggling to get out of my lap.

“No way, Jose,” I grip him tight to me as he makes pained grunts to show his displeasure at his capture. “Dow, dow,” he demands.

“Nope.”

“Mep,” he replies, making me laugh.

“You are soooo smart, Pey, Pey. Definitely didn’t get that from your mother.”

“I heard that,” Serena sounds up before she appears in the doorway. “You best get down there. Your glam squad is starting to irritate her grandmother.”

“She’s going to tell me she got her period. Any specifics I need to know?”

“Like what? Hey baby,” she walks over and runs her palm over Peyton’s head as he struggles to get out of my arms. “Have a good nap?”

“Mep,” he says, and we both crack up.

“When did this happen?”

“I don’t know where he got it, but I guess yes has been replaced.”

“I love it,” I say as he struggles in my arms for freedom. She rolls her eyes. “He wants down because he’s got things to do. He’s in his busy phase. Always so busy.”

“Mom-may,” Peyton grunts, “hewp.”

Shaking her head, Serena takes him and situates him on her hip.

“I’m so excited for him to open the workshop I have wrapped beneath the tree. I can’t wait to see him in nothing but a diaper and a tool belt.”

“Yeah? Cute. You didn’t have to do that.”

I grip Peyton’s flailing foot. “I’d let the kid have my car if he wanted it.”

“I know you would.”

“As much good as it will do him. It just died in the driveway.”

“Really?” A grimace. “Crap, sis, you’ve had some really horrible luck lately.”

“You think? It stopped being funny last night. The bombs seem to be appearing out of thin air before they drop. I think I’ve pissed my fairy godmother off somehow. All I can do now is wait for the next crap splatter.”

“And you broke up with, what was his name, Keith?”

“Kyle.”

“MOM-MAY!” Peyton grunts as she ignores his struggle in her arms.

“I knew you didn’t like him if I never met him.”