I’m having a baby. At my age.
“Should we go inside?” Bull asks. Staring at the display window, I note the little clothing intended for a miniature human. I’m due in the winter, so the summery outfits aren’t appropriate for my newborn once he or she arrives. Still, everything is so tiny.
“Okay,” I whisper, beginning to sweat from the reality of what’s ahead for me. I’m going to be responsible for a little person, and I really don’t want to screw this up. Will I be nurturing and open-minded? Will I be able to take care of someone other than myself? Can I give unconditionally when I’m sleep deprived, leaking from my breasts, and still overweight a little bit? These are all things I’ve read about happening to new mothers. Sleepless nights. Days without showers. Breast leaks. Sore nipples. Stretch marks. Weight retention. The list goes on and on.
Entering the store, I find it’s a sensory overload of cribs, baby apparatus, and doll-size clothing. Bull looks out of place as he squeezes his large body through the displays.
Eventually, he stops next to a white crib near the back. “We should make some decisions because I want to start working on the nursery.” Bull’s already mentioned turning his upstairs office into the baby’s room. We’ve discussed neutral colors and baby bedding, but staring at a beautiful white crib puts things into perspective. Soon, it’s not going to be just Bull and me.
“Scarlett?” I hear Bull’s voice, but my eyes roam the displays around us. The responsibility to feed, clothe, bathe and love a little person overwhelms me. Diapers and changings. Breast pumps, bottles, and baby bibs. Mini-bathtubs and baby-safe soap. How will I keep my child safe from things that aren’t material, like people gossiping about him? Protecting him from a bully? The possibility of someone hurting him?
My heart races at all the things I’ll never be able to control and scare the ever-living crap out of me.
“Sweetheart?” Instantly, firm arms surround me, pressing me into his chest, and my cheek rests near his heartbeat. “Are you feeling okay?”
“I’m going to be a mother,” I say, my voice no more than a croak. A firm palm strokes up and down my spine.
“Yes, you are,” he proudly states, calmly as can be while his heart beats rhythmically under my ear.
“I’m going to have stretch marks and sagging breasts. I’m going to lack sleep and smell like dirty laundry. I’m going to feed my baby, from those sagging breasts, like a cow.” My voice rises, but Bull only chuckles, the vibration rumbling against my cheek.
“It isn’t funny,” I snap, but Bull continues to stroke my back. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m not going to know what he wants when he cries or how to breastfeed. I’ve never changed a diaper in my life, and I don’t know anything about developmental milestones, or teething, or feeding. Then he’s going to grow up. He’s going to go to school where other kids can be cruel, and he’s going to fall in love with a woman who might hurt him, and no one is going to love him as much as me and . . .”
“Scarlett, sweetheart. Slow down.” He holds me tighter in his arms. “Breathe.” His chest rises and falls, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly. “Follow me, sweetheart. Breathe.”
As my heart hammers away, I try to do as he says. Closing my eyes to the overload of baby things around us, I follow his lead.
Inhale. Exhale.
Inhale. Exhale.
“It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be great, and we’re going to do everything together.”
Together. How strange will it be to share this experience? Even when I was with Shelton, we were two separate entities. He was the doctor. I was the reporter. We crossed paths but easily went in separate directions to further our personal drive and strengthen our careers. We did not come together.
Yet here is Bull. He held my hand when I told him about the pregnancy and the possibility it might not be his child, and he still wants the baby and me. He had me move into his home, and he’s provided safety, comfort, and a loving bed. In his own way, I believe he loves me. Maybe he can’t say the words. Maybe he doesn’t think he needs them or believes in them, but everything about Bull Eaton says he’s a man who loves, and loves deeply, and the way he does it is with action and deed.
“Keep breathing with me,” he says, drawing me back to him. He settles my racing heart, easing my concerns. I need him, and it hits me. He’s that someone I didn’t know I needed in my life until he’s standing here, holding me in a baby store while I go into panic mode about my future. He’s going to be the rock I lean on, and I can only hope my need for him feeds his need to be needed.
Because that’s what Bull wants most. He needs to know someone will stay with him, stand by his side and want his support, and as I told him the other night, that someone is me. I meant it all metaphorically the other evening. I said it to stand my ground and stand up for him, but I really feel it. At this moment. In this store. In his arms.
I need Bull more than I’ve needed anyone in my life, and I’m okay with that feeling. I’d like to tell him I love him. I’d like for him to tell me he feels the same way about me, but I’ve lived with those false words from a husband who cheated on me and parents who didn’t believe in me.
I won’t be that kind of parent. I won’t be that kind of wife . . . or lover . . . or whatever Bull wants to call me.
Squeezing him in return, I whisper, “Thank you.”
He chuckles softly against me. “For what, sweetheart?”
“For you being you. For all you do for Sprout and me, and all I know you’re going to be to both of us.”
A kiss comes to the top of my head, and I want to look up at him. I want to return that kiss, but I can’t let go of him. Not yet. The backs of my eyes prickle, and I’m afraid if I glance up at those midnight eyes, I’ll break. Right here in the store, I’ll cry like a baby and tell him how much I love him. How much I appreciate him and need him by my side.
“I think you’re you, too, baby,” he whispers to my hair. “And I really like that about you.”
He’s so sweet. I don’t exactly know what he likes about me, but he’s still so sweet.
“Hi there. Is there something I can help you with?” a salesclerk greets us, and Bull’s head pops off mine. Still, he keeps me tucked into his chest.
“Can I answer any questions for you and your wife?” The salesclerk has a soft voice and glancing over at her, I see her smiling as she addresses Bull. I pull back, ready to correct her on our status, but Bull tucks me back to his chest.
“We’re interested in this one,” he says. “And do you have any bedding with little yellow ducks on it?”
This time, my head leans away from his chest, and he peers down at me.
“Yellow ducks?” I question.
“Isn’t that the one you were looking at on the internet with Rita?”
My mind blanks for a minute, and I want to blame pregnancy brain until I recall the first time Bull heard I was pregnant. When he came into the Busy Bean Café, and he overheard me mentioning it to Rita while we scanned baby products on the internet.
“That’s correct,” I say, surprised at his memory. Bull leans forward, pressing a quick kiss to my lips before pulling away and addressing the salesclerk.