“They can cry for a moment. I have to help you down.”
Turns out, it's easier to get two screaming newborns out of the back of an SUV than a mother who just had abdominal surgery, but we manage.
As I push the stroller toward the back of the house, Amanda glares at the car's back door. “We need a four-door sedan.”
“We'll get whatever you want,” I call out, speeding the boys around to the back porch, up the single step, and coming to a halt next to the kitchen island. Charlie's screaming, but startles as I place his seat on the counter. Will's next, and then I unclick my older son, his sniffling face on my shoulder in seconds.
“Andrew?” Amanda calls out.
“In here.”
Shuffling sounds precede her, then she's in the doorway, frowning. “Is he okay?”
“Shhhhhhhh,” I murmur in his ear.
Magic happens: He calms down.
“Will?” she asks, wincing as she walks, clutching the pillow like she's holding her guts in.
Which, actually, she is.
As if on cue, Will stops crying, eyes going wide at the sound of his mother's voice.
Mother.
My wife is a mother, I'm a father, and we're home. Our life as parents begins now.
“You sit,” I order her, worried she's going to pop a stitch. Strength is a given in Amanda, and she'll work herself into the ground to do whatever needs to be done in any given situation, but right now, having her rest on the sofa so she can recover is more important than any notion she has of contributing.
“I will. But...” Helpless wonder covers her face as she looks at the twin chorus on the counter.
“I've got this. They'll calm down in your arms. Go sit down. Now.”
One corner of her mouth goes up in a wry smile. But she listens.
That is a miracle in and of itself.
Working double shouldered is a new skill I need to acquire quickly. The learning curve can't be slow. Fortunately, I work with one of the finest personal trainers in the world, and Vince's lessons haven't just been about building muscles.
Coordination and balance have been key.
Holding Will and lifting Charlie at the same time is easy, as long as I pretend it's fine to have kebab skewers poke out my eardrums. These boys have lungs.
By the time I get to the living room, Amanda's on the sofa, pillows arranged, top down, breasts lovely and full.
Funny. A few days ago, that sight would have my junk twitching in my pants.
Now? It's just beautiful.
And besides, those breasts aren't mine anymore. Not for a long while.
She's as efficient as she is gentle, the babies' cries upsetting her, but we power through together. Her finger goes under Will's lip to unlatch him twice before she's satisfied with how he's feeding, Charlie fussing against her ribs before finally moving less, suckling more.
A long, slow sigh comes out of her when they're all in place.
It's my chance to look around.
Our house is different.
Fundamentally changed.
Because I'm the father now.
When we left the house, amniotic fluid pouring out of my wife, the boys ready to make their entrance into this strange new world with cool air and bright lights (but hey–boobs with milk, too, so there's a consolation prize), my father was the only man who had lived here with the title of Dad.
Not anymore.
A smattering of gifts covers the front hall table, but the Red Sox-themed box with a huge card on it that says FROM GRANDPA LEO makes me stop short.
Damn.
I pick up the box and stare at it. Amanda can't see this now. She's too fragile. I'll put it in the closet for later.
“Andrew?”
I freeze and look up. I'm directly in her line of sight.
“What's that?”
“One of the gifts.”
“Do I see my dad's name on it?”
Damn her good eyes.
“Yes.”
A wide moon gaze meets mine. “Can you open it?”
She's so vulnerable, breasts out, babies nursing, her face haggard and glowing at the same time. Doing this to her now feels harsh. Hard.
Unfair.
“Why don't you open it later?”
Her hands reach out. “Give it to me.” There's no quarter in that voice. I have to comply with the order.
So I do.
With careful fingers, she opens the present, saving the card for last. Inside the box are two little baseball hats with Red Sox logos, and onesies made to look like jerseys.
Her hands shake.
But she opens the card.
“Dear Kids,” she reads aloud. “You haven't met your old Grandpa Leo, but I hope to take you to a game with your mom and dad one day, and get it right this time. Love, Grandpa.”
Get it right this time.
Air whooshes out of her like a tire going flat. I bend down, eyes at her level, and put my hand on the cocktail table, careful not to upset the delicate balance she has going on with the babies and nursing.
“Leo's trying. He really wants to meet the babies,” I say, watching her closely.
“I know.”
“We can cut him back out of your life again if it's too painful,” I whisper, as if the truth is too hard to say in a full voice. If I had complete control over the mess with Leo, this would be easier.
But I'm not Amanda. This is her call.
“It's painful having him come back, but I'm not sure it would be any less painful to pretend he's not trying.”
There are layers to being an adult. Seeing the world as a nuanced, complex place where people aren't all bad or all good is part of operating at a mature level. Watching Amanda work her way through the choppy waters of that journey is an honor.
It's also heartbreaking as hell.
“Andrew? Can you get me more water?” Amanda asks sheepishly, moving carefully to stretch her shoulders.
“Of course. What else? Are you hungry? Need more pillows? Need a–” Before I can finish, a long yawn escapes from me. I try to hold it back as if it's a sign of weakness.
I fail.
“Just water.” My yawn is contagious, Amanda's arms going up to stretch, pain taking over her expression as the stretch proves to be a bad instinct.
She clutches her midsection and breathes, hunched over the babies, who are quietly snacking.
“Need your pain meds?”
A nod is the only answer.
A minute later, I'm handing her the water and an ibuprofen pill the size of a water softener salt pellet, when there's a light knock at the front door. My phone buzzes.
So does Amanda's.
“That must be Mom,” she says, yawning again. Panic takes over in her eyes. “Hide the gift from Leo! I haven't told her he's back in my life.”
I grab the box, card, and torn wrapping paper and shove it in a big basket in the closet.
The sound of a code being punched into the front door means it's–
“Dad?” I say loudly, trying to warn Amanda, whose breasts are laid out like they're on a charcuterie board. She's no prude, but given this is the first time my father's been near her since the babies were born, she grabs a small blanket and quickly covers her chest.
Pam comes in right on Dad's heels, carrying a brown paper bag with the logo of Amanda's favorite Greek restaurant in Newton.