Page 33 of Buckin' Around

I pad to the bassinet that is now producing deathly serious cries and pick Ivy up.

Her little face is beet red, her gummy mouth open as she screams the room down.

“Shhhh. I know, Daddy’s an ass. Let’s get you taken care of, hey, baby girl?” I hold her to my chest. The tang of poop fills my senses.

“Looks like we have a little job to do first, hey, pumpkin.”

I lay her down and un-swaddle her. She fusses, little hands curling to fists as she shoves them desperately into her mouth and sucks hard.

“Hungry, sweetheart?” I lose a soft chuckle.

Of course she is.

Blanket safely placed away, I tug the small metal clips open in the crotch of the pink onesie. Ivy’s little legs kick up. I rest one hand on her belly, holding her still, as the other flicks the last of the buttons open.

The dark yellow poop has leaked through her diaper.

“Phew, bubba. You have been busy.”

I slide her legs from the onesie and push it up underneath her, careful to keep it a safe distance from the nuclear poop zone. I pad to the dresser and pull out a new onesie, diaper, and wipes.

Ivy’s still sucking her fist furiously as I kneel on the floor to finish the job. I clean her up and apply the fresh diaper before slipping her out of her onesie quickly. I lay the new one out, splayed open, and lift her up and onto it. Arms in first, I slide each leg in and zip her up.

Her fussing starts again as she realizes her fist is not her food.

“I know, sweet one. Let’s get a girl her bottle.”

I pick her up and cuddle her in my hold. Unable to resist, I lower my face into her fluffy light hair and breathe her in.

My heart squeezes in my chest. Memories of Chlo in my arms hit hard. Heat prickles the back of my eyes and my vision blurs. I’ve been away for barely two months, and already I’m not coping. And I’m the adult. I can only imagine how Chloe is feeling.

I make a mental note to video call her tonight and update her. Maybe introduce her to Ivy. I know she’s going to flip out. She’s loved babies her whole life. Guess it runs in the family.

I pad to the steel-and-concrete kitchen that I am sure is worth more than my entire house back home and hunt through the cupboard for Ivy’s bottles and formula.

I guess I should have asked, but I was a little preoccupied with the reception I go?—

A neon yellow note is stuck to the counter.

I move closer and shift Ivy in my arms as I read it.

Bottles are made up in the fridge.

Spencer

416 551 1402

Huh. The back and forth I’m traveling over with this man is ridiculous.

Absent, only to be thoughtful in the next breath. Or executing the bare minimum as a parent...

I pluck up the note and crush it in my free hand. I wander around, opening cupboards until I find the trash and toss it in.

Well aware my Irish hotheadedness will bite me in the ass one day, I huff and lean on the countertop as I measure out a serving of formula with one hand. I tip it into the bottle and fill it with tap water.

Now to heat it up . . .

I manage to find a pot and lid and bring water to a boil. I rest the bottle in the water for a few minutes, turning it as I go. It’s old school, but effective. And the only way I know to warm a bottle up.