She rolls onto her side to face me. I can just barely make out the whites of her eyes as she props her head in her hand. “I love you too,” she whispers, combing her fingers through my hair before stuffing a pillow between us. “Just in case we forget she’s here during the night.” Her giggle is one laden with frustration. But hey, delayed gratification is just one of those things you get used to with a kid around. Keeps the fire burning hot, desire constantly simmering beneath the surface, and the climax—fucking explosive. Every. Single. Time.
“Good thinking.” I’m still not quite sure that’ll be enough to keep me from pawing her in my sleep, but I’m willing to give it an honest try.
After leaning over the barrier for a chaste goodnight kiss, she flops onto her pillow. With her fingers intwined in mine, I stroke the underside of her wrist until we drift off to sleep.
Never in my life have I been more thankful that my child loves her some sleep than I am right now, as I find myself waking up to Wyatt’s face buried in my nape and his morning wood pressing into my ass like a light saber ready to do battle. Desire floods my veins, and the rhythm of my heartbeat borders on erratic.
Powerless to resist, I trail a hand between us, palming the steel rod and caressing him in long languid strokes until he awakens fully.
“Shhh,” I whisper at the sound of his moan. “We’re not alone.”
The reminder pours over him like an icy bucket of cold water, signaling his retreat. My disappointment at the loss of his prodding erection is entirely irrational. To touch him at all was flirting with fire, but the man has a way of making me want to dive headfirst into the flames and savor the burn.
When he disappears into the bathroom to deal with his situation, I slip from the bed, creeping into Prissy’s nook to sit on the edge of the mattress. I take a quiet moment to reflect as I watch her sleep. It’s incomprehensible to me that my baby is already seven years old. It seems like only yesterday I was faced with that positive pregnancy test, while practically still a kid myself. At the time that little plus sign felt like the end of the world. Now I know it was merely the beginning. Despite being young, I can honestly say that not once have I regretted my choice to keep her. When I look back on the years of joy this little girl has brought to my life, I know without question that Prissy’s existence was no mistake. She’s my greatest accomplishment. My pride and joy. My legacy.
“Happy Birthday, Priss.” I stroke her wild hair back with my fingers and she stirs. Grunts. But makes no attempt to open her eyes.
“Prissy,” I say, a little louder. “Rise and shine, birthday girl!” When she still doesn’t budge, I go for the heavy artillery and dig my pointers into her sides, tickling her until she’s writhing around swatting and kicking in hopes to make me stop.
“Fine!” she laughs. “I’m up! I’m up!”
“That’s more like it.” I bend to retrieve the notebook from the floor beside me. “Because it’s time for your interview.”
The birthday journal is something I read about online during my pregnancy and started when she turned one. For the first two years, I answered on her behalf, but since the age of three the words have come straight from the horse’s mouth. It’s a lot of fun to look back at her answers throughout the years, something I know we’ll both cherish more and more as she gets older.
“You brought it?” With a wide smile, she scoots herself up to sitting, roughly pushing her tangles away from her face.
“Of course I did.”
“Okay,” she says, folding her hands and placing them in her lap, all proper-like. “I’m ready.”
“Question number one,” I say, tapping my pen on the pad. “What was your favorite book this year?”
“That’s easy,” she says. “The Fudge books by Judy Blume.”
Of course, I think, jotting it down. She’s only had me read the entire series three times. The girl is obsessed with Fudge and his antics. He probably reminds her of her naughty little self.
“Perfect,” I say, moving on to the next. “What was your favorite movie?”
“Chucky!”
“Which one?”
“Umm,” she places a finger on her chin, tapping it lightly. “All of them.”
Again…no surprise. With a shake of my head, I scrawl her answer on the page. “Who is your best friend?”
She chews her lip and begins to rock back and forth. “Don’t get mad, okay?”
“Why would I get mad?”
Her shoulders tense as she brings them to her ears before dropping them back down with a huff. “Okay…” She covers her face with her hands, so she won’t have to witness my reaction. I half expect her to tell me she befriended a murderer by how crazy she’s acting. “It’s Wyatt.” Her answer escapes as a high-pitched squeak.
Is that all? “Wyatt’s a great choice.” I’m touched that she was afraid to hurt my feelings in choosing someone other than me. In all honesty, I’m relieved. It warms my heart to know that she’s forged such a solid bond with someone other than myself or her Paw. The fact that I, too, have a very deep connection with her new bestie also, serves to soften the blow. The more she loves him, the freer I feel to allow myself to do the same.
I blow out a deep breath when I come to the next one, because unlike with most children, the answer never changes. Asking is simply a formality. “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
She squints her little eyes at me. “A mortician, duh!”
Duh, indeed. My little girl has never dreamed of being anything else. Not a princess or a teacher. She’s never wanted to be a cashier or flip burgers at McDonald’s. Nope. Unlike myself, who wanted to get as far away as possible from the place until life gave me a reason to stay, she’s embraced her birthright from the womb.
After a few more questions, we come to my personal favorite. “Okay,” I say, rubbing my palms together to play up the suspense. “Think really hard before answering.”
“Okay…”
“What was your favorite memory from being six?”
“Oh, I know,” she says with a dreamy look in her eyes. “The father-daughter dance with Wyatt, cuz it was like, the best day of my whole life.”
Is someone chopping onions in here?
“What looks good?” Wyatt asks Prissy when we enter the cutest little bakery, Bear Paw Sweets & Eats. Evidently, his Mimi gave him treats for breakfast on his birthdays, and we’re continuing the practice. The fact that he’s passing traditions from his childhood on to my little girl has me floating on air.
“Oh, Mylanta.” Prissy’s eyes pop as she spins in a circle, taking in the wall-to-wall yumminess that surrounds us. “The ice cream looks really good.” She licks her lips staring into the glass case at the mouthwatering display of cupcakes. “But so do those.”
“Get whatever you want, kiddo,” Wyatt encourages. “It’s your day.”
Shamelessly my mind jumps straight to the gutter, recollecting New Year’s Eve, when he proclaimed it my night. He sure does love to pamper his girls, catering to each of our very different appetites, of course.