Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
“Uh oh,” he said as the cries of both Saylor and the baby met his ears. “What’s going on? Are we hungry?”
I wanted to say that Saylor probably was, and it was likely part of the reason she was so miserable, but I felt like it wasn’t the time to tease her.
“No. He ate. He got changed. He just won’t stop crying,” Saylor admitted as I jiggled our son to no avail.
“He’s probably got gas,” Keith said, walking over to set down his basket and wash his hands, then making his way toward us, doing gimmie fingers at the baby.
“Ah…” I said, not sure I trusted him with my son.
“I’m just gonna put him on the couch,” Keith said, taking him from me with surprisingly careful hands, setting him on his back on the couch, then sitting as well.
Reaching, he started to rub his hands down his belly while counting. “One and two and three and four and five and six and seven and eight,” he said. Then, switching to move his hands in a wave, he counted again. “And running man!” he said, unbothered by the baby’s wailing as he gently grabbed his ankles, then ran them up into his belly quickly as he counted. “High knees!” he went on, quickly bringing the baby’s knees into his belly. “Around the world!” Keith cheered, moving his legs in circles. “Downnnnn,” he said, pulling his legs straight. “And release!” he declared as he pressed the baby’s legs up by his shoulders.
Yeah.
Let’s just say Keith was right.
The kid had been full of gas bubbles.
But not anymore.
And he immediately stopped crying.
“How the hell do you know that?” Saylor asked, tears gone, brows pinched. “God, please don’t tell me you do that to Petunia.”
“Nope,” Keith said. “I did once have to pull—“
“Good God, don’t finish that sentence,” Saylor said, picking up the baby, and putting him to her shoulder, where he quickly settled down, exhausted from his pain and crying.
“I learned the trick from my mom,” Keith said, and I was pretty sure it was the first time in the several years we’d known him that he’d talked about a family. “She used to run a daycare out of our house when I was growing up. Lots of miserable babies. That trick always worked.”
“Does she still run it?” Saylor asked, likely thinking it might be a viable option if we ever needed someone to take care of our son when the family members were busy.
“Mom died,” Keith said, gaze cutting away. “It’s just me now,” he said, tone sadder than we’d ever heard it. “And Petunia,” he added, putting some pep into his tone.
“And us,” Saylor said, making Keith turn, eyes bright.
“I’m gonna teach my little nephew all about video games,” he decided, tone serious, like it was his new life’s mission.
“So long as you don’t try to teach him about nutrition, I’m fine with that,” Saylor agreed.
“Oh, speaking of,” Keith said, hopping up to grab the basket he’d brought in with him, then handing it to Saylor.
Inside was every single one of her favorite gummy candies.
And, postpartum and emotional, Saylor burst into tears again, handing me the baby, then throwing her arms around Keith.
“What? Nothing for me?” I teased as he awkwardly patted Saylor’s back.
To that, Keith’s gaze went to Saylor, then the baby.
“You’ve already got everything,” he said.
And, fuck, truer words had never been spoken.
Saylor - 11 years
“Breathe,” I demanded as Anthony looked about ready to pass out as we led our eldest son into the shooting range. “I was seven when my grandfather first showed me how to shoot,” I reminded him, thinking of those summers where my mom would pack us up and take us upstate to visit my paternal grandfather’s farm.
We’d spend endless days getting fresh air, milking cows, collecting eggs from the chickens and ducks, playing in the creek, and, yes, shooting in my grandfather’s makeshift range on one of his back acres.
“Yes,” Anthony said, watching our son’s dark head move confidently in front of us. “But you forget it’s not just your genes he’s got,” he added, voice too low for our son to hear.
“We’re going to be right there with him,” I reminded him. “It would be virtually impossible for him to get himself hurt.”
“Virtually leaves room for error,” Anthony insisted.
Even though our eldest showed no signs of inheriting Anthony’s clumsiness. That unfortunate gene passed down to our youngest, a little girl who was forever falling over her own feet, slamming into corners of cabinets, falling off of her bed, dropping and spilling things.
I was still hoping it was something she might grow out of. Because I really didn’t need to worry about someone else so accident prone in my immediate family.
“I’m just saying, this could have waited another couple of years.”
“Sure,” I agreed. “But, quite frankly, I’m sick of listening to him complain that his cousins all get to go practice and he doesn’t. So… here we are,” I said as we crowded into our lane.