Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 61149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
Not because we have a cushy nest that keeps us from financial stress – although we do have that shit – but because there’s three of us to rotate the responsibility of caring for our little man when his check engine light is unexpectedly on.
Like last week.
D got a cold out of nowhere and could not sleep without having his little nose sucked dry by this baby turkey baster thing first.
Had to be done like every two hours.
Which isn’t the best shit for sleep.
Or work.
Or sex.
Which we only recently started being able to have again together.
Pathetically enough, by the end of most days, someone’s too tired, someone’s too moody, and someone’s too clingy to our son they’ve been away from for “too long”.
The who of that shit endlessly rotates.
I’m thinkin’ we take Eva and Demián up on their offer of watching him for an entire weekend.
We could use the alone time together.
Even if it’s just to get some quality fucking shut eye.
Rather than head straight for our bedroom, I make a pit stop at D’s door, grateful he’s close now, yet even more thankful that he’ll eventually have his own space further away at some point.
Our little man isn’t gonna be little forever, right?
It’ll be healthy that he has his own private space.
For all of us.
For sometimes similar but different reasons.
As for now?
This makes providing him with the love and care he needs, the love and care I’m glad I can help provide, so much goddamn easier.
Cracking open the door precedes me fixing the crooked Ferrari themed emblem he has with his first name on it instead of Ferrari, a custom gift Kid ordered that he couldn’t wait to put up.
Our boy is constantly surrounded by car shit.
The combination of his car themed room – which includes dressers that look like tool chests, corner shelves made of old tires, and a crib made to look like a sports vehicle – his race themed accessories – blankets, bottles, bags – and how much time he spends glued to Kid’s hip in the garage has me banking on him being over the top into it like his dad.
He already has an audible gift.
Little man cries whenever he’s around and a car with an engine problem pulls up to the garage.
Anything else?
Peaceful.
Happy.
Excited at the clanking of tools and instrumental music coming through the speakers.
Fucked up motor?
Wails like a dying howler monkey on cocaine.
Diesel – like the car dude who engineered it – Abbot – in honor of Rabbit’s dad – Nolan got Kid’s bright fucking blue eyes and black hair, yet my longer nose and big ass forehead.
Who he shares his actual DNA with doesn’t matter.
At least not right now.
All health issues for both sides are well documented and in our medical shit and if the day for diving deeper or testing ever comes up, of course we’ll fucking do it.
We’ll always do what’s best for him.
Him before us.
And regardless of who the fuck donated the load to make him, he’s still both of ours.
He’ll call us both some version of dad when he starts talking.
And I so can wait for those days.
He already tries.
He already tries and he’s just so mouthy.
Exactly like his mom.
Forfuckssake there’s no reason I should be arguing as hard as do I with an infant about the right binky.
Quietly slipping into the room, I peer over the edge to see him sprawled out, light honey fists balled tight as if gripping a steering wheel.
Who fucking knows?
Maybe he is.
Maybe he’s already dreaming about driving.
Street racing.
Becoming the F1 racer Kid never did.
The same one he no longer desires to be.
I prepare to reach over and adjust his crooked onesie when I decide against it.
Nah.
No need to risk waking his ass up.
Truth is, his ass’ll be up soon enough.
Somewhere in the next two hours.
Tops.
Post exiting, I resume the trek back to our room, rechecking the non-crucial texts I got from Garcia earlier.
Trying to see if I’ve got time for a poker night next week wasn’t exactly a pressing matter.
Plus, him hosting them more often as a sly way to spend some time with Zero – who’s basically kept his distance outside of the card nights since the wedding – isn’t my car or my lot to fucking secure.
I told him the same shit he told me.
That change can be a good thing.
He – of course – did what he does best.
Smiled.
Poured himself another drink.
Pretended he had no idea what the fuck I was talking about and switched subjects.
Look, it’s not my job to force him to get his shit together.
But I’ll be there for his ass when does.
Just like he was for me.
Nudging the cracked door open wider with the heel of my boot successfully reveals to me the other reasons worth getting my ass out of bed every morning.
Kid lying on his stomach with his arm draped off the side of our king-size mattress closest to the baby monitor tells me he was last to insist they check on D whenever he stirred while Rabbit pressed against his back, arm flopped on top of his, indicates she stopped him from prematurely getting up.