Maria trails through the door behind me, having stopped briefly to grab Izzy’s favorite pacifier from where it got left behind in the living room last night, her eyes wide and alert as she gets a load of just how upset Izzy seems to be. This is a true cry of some sort of pain or discomfort, not the softer lull of her normal complaints.
But even her favorite pacifier appears to be a useless endeavor.
“Oh my goodness, you poor thing. You’re even too worked up for your binky,” Maria whispers and reaches out to gently caress the skin at Izzy’s cheek and forehead. She looks like a mom who is equal parts worried and eager to calm her sweet baby down. “She doesn’t feel like she’s running a fever or anything, but she seems really upset. You think I should get her a bottle? Even if she’s not hungry, maybe the sucking sensation will soothe her?”
“Worth a shot.” I nod, and she turns to quickly head out of the room, but I call out to stop her. “Wait, Ri!”
She spins quickly to meet my eyes.
“Warm it a little extra.”
She nods fervently and then disappears down the hall to take action. It’s one of the most prominent parts of Maria’s personality—the action. She’s not a wait-and-see kind of gal. She’s a doer. She needs to feel like she’s trying, even if she’s spinning her wheels.
I look down at Izzy’s tiny features all scrunched up and rub at her back and sides, hoping to ease the pain. Her current state reminds me of Lexi and how a trapped gas bubble used to make her miserable when she was a baby.
Surely that’s what this is, a gas bubble stuck in her teeny torso, and without the ability to understand the mechanics and whys of it, she’s traumatized.
Ironically, I don’t think she’s the only one. Maria’s face as she jumped out of bed, putting a pause button on our unexpected but well-appreciated activities, didn’t tell a story of a woman who was confident in her understanding of what was happening between us.
And I can’t say I blame her. Because I don’t really understand it myself. One minute, we were falling into bed with exhaustion, and the next, we were…not exhausted.
My dick, in fact, was all in prior to the distraction that came from the cries of this little girl. Thankfully, he’s old enough to understand that sometimes personal responsibility comes before pleasure. Although, the rest of the feelings and sensations in this situation are a little too complicated for him. Meaning? Fallout? Far past his pay grade.
And my brain, well, for the past decade and a half, it’s just as inexperienced with anything other than short-lived flings.
Izzy takes a big gulp of air before letting out another sob, and I pat at her back continuously. I hate watching her little face in pain when she can’t understand why.
I can hear Maria scrambling around in the kitchen with every bang and smash of the cabinets, and it makes me smile. She’s frantic—just like any mother would be.
She’s a mom.
She might feel strange calling herself that, but I’ve never seen someone with more unconditional love in their heart. Maria is a mother to Izzy, no matter the details of how that came to be.
As Izzy squirms, I lay her down on the ottoman of the rocking chair in her room and churn her legs toward her chest in an effort to find some sort of relief for her hurt. A trick my mom showed me when Lexi was about this age.
She fights the motion, but with every bicycle turn of her legs, her shouts ease a bit. In a sudden snap, Izzy releases a burp and two little baby toots in a row, and straightaway, all the pain in her features flees.
She’s crying still, disturbed by the whole experience, but she’s not in actual discomfort anymore.
Maria rushes back into the room with her bottle, and I scoop Izzy up and into my arms so that I can take a seat in the rocker.
I take the bottle from Maria, but not before catching her hand in mine and rubbing the back of it with my thumb. “She’s good now. Just a whole lot of gas trapped inside.”
“How did you know that’s what it was?”
“Happens to Jude every time he eats broccoli,” I tease, and Maria laughs softly.
“I actually knew from my niece,” I explain the real truth of my knowledge, while giving Izzy her bottle. She drinks eagerly as I offer the nipple at her lips, and the room settles into blessed silence. “When Lexi was around Izzy’s age, Winnie called me in the middle of the night at a complete loss over what to do with a baby who wouldn’t stop crying. Being a single guy with no kids, hell if I knew what to do either. But Wendy Winslow saved the day after getting dragged out of bed to come help. I swear, it only took her two minutes before she had it handled.”