Tied(8)

A rancid aroma invades my nose. “Jesus, James.” I lay him on the table to get him changed.

You look surprised. You shouldn’t be. Real men change diapers.

I’m thinking about putting that on a T-shirt.

In fact, anything Kate can do—bath time, bedtime, midnight feedings—I can do too. I kind of have to.

Kate was only twenty-eight when James was born. For a professional in our field, that’s young. And as happy as she was to do the mom thing—and despite a boatload of guilt—she just wasn’t ready to trade in the corporate ladder for Mommy and Me’s and goddamn Wiggles songs.

A nanny or day care was out of the question. When I was young, I didn’t even like to board our dogs. No way was I handing my kid off to some strangers, hoping every day that they didn’t cause harm.

But I did promise Kate—once upon a time—that I’d make all her dreams come true. So, we compromised. Here’s how that played out. You’ll find the ending of this exchange particularly gratifying . . . or at least I did:

James—four weeks old.

It’s ten thirty by the time I walk through the door of our apartment. These may seem like late hours to you, but in the field of investment banking, it’s pretty much par for the course. One seven o’clock meeting runs over, then a conference call with Indonesia, a couple more hours spent reviewing contracts, and here we are.

When James was first born, I took two weeks dad-ternity leave, but now I’m back at the office full speed ahead. Kate’s doing the stay-at-home-mom thing. We used to alternate the middle-of-the-night feeding shifts, but because it’s difficult to form a coherent sentence—let alone manage millions of dollars—when half your brain is asleep, they now fall on her, so I can get a night of decent shut-eye and not decimate my clients’ fortunes.

I toss my keys on the table and nudge the door closed with my foot. I step into the living room—Kate’s sitting on the couch with a basket of laundry at her feet, folding tiny pants that will join their onesie brethren stacked on the table. Her long, soft hair—which I relish feeling draped across my thighs—is tied up in a bun. She’s wearing short pajama shorts and a navy T-shirt, and I can’t help but notice her still-larger-than-normal-from-breast-feeding tits are free from the usual bra constraints.

Bonus.

In a louder voice than I’d intended, I say, “Hey, beautiful.”

“Shhh!” She attacks. “If you wake that baby, I’ll pluck out every pubic hair you have the next time you fall asleep.”

My eyes widen. She’s been spending way too much time with Delores these days.

I lower my voice. “Sorry.” I sit beside her on the couch and lean over for a kiss.

My lips coax a smile from her—as usual. “Hi,” she greets me in a much-happier-to-see-me tone. “Do you want me to heat you up a plate?”

“Nah, I’ll just make myself a bowl of cereal.”

Kate yawns as she picks up a my mom is hotter than your mom bib and continues to fold.

“Rough day?” I ask.

“Not so much. He was just really cranky around six—it took me forever to get him down for the night.”

I nod. Then tilt my head toward the hallway. “I’m just gonna go check on him.”

Kate shoots me down. “No—no, you’re not.”

“I’ll be really quiet.”

“Drew—”

“I won’t even touch him.”

Wryly she points out, “We both know you’re incapable of seeing James and not touching him.”

Touché.

“And then he’ll be up and I’ll have to feed him to get him back down. And his whole schedule will be blown for the night.”

I see the wisdom of what she’s saying. Doesn’t mean I have to frigging like it.

“I haven’t seen him all day!” I had to run out the door earlier than usual this morning, to make a meeting with a client uptown. “It’s not healthy for a baby to go days without laying eyes on the man who fathered him.”

I don’t know if this is a fact—but it sounds good, so I stick with it.

Again, Kate’s not having it. “He’s four weeks old. He needs a schedule more than he needs to see his daddy.”

I frown. I think my feelings are hurt. “That’s a f*cked-up thing to say.”

She shrugs. “Doesn’t make it any less true.”

I sigh. And decide on a more subversive course of action. “Then I’ll just go make that bowl of cereal.”

Kate watches me as I get up. Then softly calls to my retreating back, “Stay away from the nursery, Drew—don’t even look at the door.”

I neither agree nor disagree. Even though Kate and I have been together for years, loopholes still apply. I enter the kitchen, grab the milk out of the fridge, and pour myself a bowl Lucky Charms. I take two bites and—

Did you hear that? It sounded like a baby’s cry, didn’t it?

No?

Then I recommend you get your hearing checked, ’cause I definitely heard it.

I slip through the kitchen door and stealthily make my way down the hall to the nursery. The door is cracked a few inches—just wide enough to stick my head in. The night-light casts a warm glow on the dark wood furniture, rocking chair, and stuffed animals stacked in the corner. I listen. And all I hear is the sound of James’s deep, rhythmic baby breathing.