Patchwork Paradise(47)

“See those sucking motions he’s making? That means you’re running out of time fast.”

“Okay.” I folded the diaper down, looked, and made a weird berk noise. “Oh, that’s nasty. Milo, you’re going to have to have words with Granny Louise about those onions.”

“Aw.” My mother pressed her hands to her bosom. “You really think he’ll call me Granny?”

I shrugged. “Who knows? But seriously, Mom. The smell. Do something.” I was about to gag, and she finally took pity.

“Oh, step out of the way, but the next one is yours. You use the scented wipes for number twos, and you can use the others for number ones.”

I only then noticed the two different brands. “Why?”

“Because the unscented ones are better for the environment.”

“Milo’s mom thought of everything,” I said as my mother dealt with the diaper as if she did it every day. Maybe it was one of those skills that, once acquired, never went away.

I took the moment to look around my living room. Mom had pushed the coffee table against the wall, and on my soft rug lay a colorful little mat with two arches over it. Toys and plastic mirrors dangled down. A little bouncy chair sat beside it. There was a trunk of soft toys by the TV. On my table sat a basket with fresh onesies and other things I couldn’t identify. It didn’t look like Sam’s home anymore. I pressed my hand against the tightness in my chest and resisted the urge to sweep it all into a bag and return the house to its usual, tidy shape.

“Just because she has postpartum depression doesn’t mean that she doesn’t love her child, Oliver. It’s very serious, but she will get better, and she will want her child back.” She closed Milo’s onesie. “So you shouldn’t get too attached.” She lifted Milo and smiled at him. I didn’t think it was me we needed to worry about. “I bet you’re hungry, huh, little boo?”

On cue he started crying, and she handed him over to me. “Go sit. I’ll bring the bottle.”

“But—” I began, uselessly. She was already gone. “Well. It’s you and me and—” I glanced at the couch where a fat stuffed toy waited “—a yellow pig with a belly button.” Milo cried harder, and I awkwardly sat, trying to curl him up into my arms in the way I’d seen other people do with babies. The noise he made grated on my nerves. Like Thomas said, it was the kind of sound that made my blood pressure rise. I tried to keep calm and took a steadying breath. “Shush, little fella, you’re going to wake Daddy. Uh.” My eyeballs nearly fell out of my head when Milo began to nuzzle my shirt, right where my nipple was. “Dude. You’re not going to find anything there. No, that’s just wrong. Stop it.”

“Babies do that, Oliver. It’s instinct. Here’s his bottle. Now you make sure the nipple is always full of formula. If he swallows air, his tummy will hurt. When he’s halfway done, gently pry the bottle loose, put him over your shoulder, and pat his back until he burps. You might want to put this towel underneath first.”

“Okay. You hungry, little man?” He lifted his tiny fists and waved them around. I took that as enthusiastic agreement and put the bottle to his plump little lips. Immediately he latched on and began to suck. Gosh, his eyes were blue.

“See? Piece of cake,” Mom said, and she patted my shoulder. I squinted at her. Did she look a little misty-eyed?

“Hey, wait! Where are you going?” I asked as she began to move away.

“I’m going to take a nap,” she said, and left me all alone.





It was a good thing I remembered the towel, because he burped up what looked like half his bottle. “Aw.” I gently patted his back as he squirmed. “Are you going to go hungry now? Do you want some more?” I put him in the crook of my elbow again, folded up the towel, and tossed it as far away from me as I could, because holy crap, how could milk that had gone down a second ago already smell so sour?

He happily drank the rest of his bottle. When it neared the point the nipple would fill up with air, I took it away.

“Was that satisfactory for you? Because if not, I’ll write to the formula company. After all, milk is such a dull flavor. Maybe we can ask them to add some strawberries, huh?” He blew me formula-flavored bubbles, and I made a face. “Or mint.”

At a loss for what to do, I carried him and the bottle into the kitchen, somehow managed to rinse it one-handed—I figured new parents had to do a lot of things one-handed—and went back into the living room.

“I probably shouldn’t put you on your belly,” I told him.

“Brrr,” he said.

“No, no. Don’t argue. I can be a fun uncle, but I can be strict too. We don’t want to lose all that precious formula again, now do we?”

Milo stared at me and waved his fist.

“I knew you’d come around. How about the bouncy chair? Shall we try that? I spotted some riveting literature in that box of toys over there. What do you think?” I had a scary premonition of this being my future instead of Saturday nights on the town and doing my own thing. I tried not to hyperventilate.

I put Milo down, and he kicked his arms and legs. And that was why Thomas found me cross-legged on the floor, reading Polly Puppy to a six-week-old baby.

“Nice sound effects,” he said, and my face went fiery hot.