Very Merry Wingmen

by Daisy Prescott

  “Fuck, I don’t care about looking like a weirdo with my face covered in orange powder. We went through something today. We’re veterans of the same battle. Seeing them might trigger PTSD.” I’m almost serious. “We should have the baby at Harborview.”

  My friends and wife stare at me like I’ve gone full out Apocalypse Now Brando in the jungle.

  “What?” I shrug, spinning my keys around my finger.

  “PTSD? Really? How are you going to handle the actual birth?” Hailey asks.

  “Because I love you. And loving you makes the most difficult moments bearable.” It’s the simplest and most honest explanation I can give. Leaning close, I give my wife, the love of my life, the mother of my children, a soft kiss on her mouth.

  Beside us, I swear I hear Roslyn sigh.

  “I love you, too,” Hailey says against my lips.

  “Okay, I can see why you keep him,” Roslyn confesses.

  “I’m irresistible?” I smile at my wife.

  “You have your moments,” Hailey admits.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Did you know elephants are pregnant for ninety-five weeks? Almost two years? And orcas carry their babies for seventeen months?” I read these fun facts off my phone as she gets dressed in her stretchy, black maternity leggings and a flowy white T-shirt top.

  “Are you comparing me to a whale again?” Hailey’s voice holds a warning I’m on thin ice.

  I can’t help it if she’s wearing black and white. Like an orca. Thankfully, I’ve had enough coffee this morning to keep the coincidence to myself.

  “No, I’m trying to make you feel better. You have six weeks to go. If you were a giraffe, you’d be preggo for four hundred days. Doesn’t that make forty-two days seem short?”

  Perfectly still like a statue, she stares at me blankly. Not even her mouth twitches. I can’t tell if she’s processing these cool, fun facts. Or plotting my death.

  She’s excellent at multi-tasking, so she’s probably doing both.

  “It’s cold and raining out there. You’ll probably want a sweater or something.” I change the subject to the weather. “It’s November and daylight savings ended last weekend, meaning it’ll be dark by the time we get home from my parents’ house this afternoon.”

  Today’s the baby shower. The co-ed baby shower. Which I feel like is fundamentally wrong on many levels, but I’ve been promised lots of cake so I’m going to make the best of it. I mean, I was there for the conception and I’m going to be there for the birth and the growing up part. Yet I feel like this should be a day all about Hailey and the amazing job she’s doing gestating a human inside of her body. That’s all her. Can’t think of a bigger reason to have a celebration than that. Plus, I’ll be in the way and stealing attention.

  Now, before someone labels me a sexist bastard for not wanting to ooh and ahh over baby gifts people bought us because we told them to, I don’t like opening presents in front of everyone at Christmas either. Too many years of having to fake excitement over socks to change my opinion on this weird tradition.

  I’ve been to plenty of these co-ed events to base my opinion on experience, not some lame he-man masculine separation of parental duties bullshit.

  Then again, Hailey and I ran into each other at Lori and Nick’s shower. In a big way, I owe my life to whoever decided men should attend baby parties. And my mother for blackmailing me with stuffing and bribing me with leftovers.

  Clearly, I’m easily motivated by food.

  PTSD or not, I’m here for everything this baby can bring. Good, bad, ugly, and smelly.

  My mother is once again hosting the party. The Donnely farmhouse is bigger than our place, and Mom lives for these kind of events. She says the grandkids keep her young despite the streaks of gray in her brown hair.

  We arrive early, but my sisters are already here, buzzing around like a busy swarm of bees, decorating and preparing food for the party.

  “Dad in the family room?” I ask, sticking to the perimeter of the kitchen so I don’t get in the way.

  “I think he’s out in the barn.” Mom gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. Her familiar floral and vanilla scent tickles my nose. “You can go hide with him.”

  Relieved, I practically jog across the driveway.

  Dad’s got the radio on and is listening to the UW football pregame show while he rearranges a tool box on his workbench. Glancing around at the perfectly organized lawn equipment, I can tell he’s been out here for a while already. I take after my dad in looks and some would say, personality. We both get our dimples and our charms from the Donnely side of the family.

  “Tom, come to hide with your old man?” Grinning, he pats my shoulder.

  “Why do men hide in garages and barns?” I gently slap his back in greeting.

  “Because we’re smart enough to know our limitations.”

  I nod in understanding.

  “We’d only be in the way in the house right now,” he continues. “Best to wait until the frenzy is finished and we can enjoy the spoils of all that cooking and baking.”

  “Do you ever feel guilty for not helping?” I lean against the bench, absently fiddling with a set of tin snips.

  “Never. I do my part in other ways.” He lines up his screwdrivers by type and size. “I try not to give too much advice, but now that Pops is gone, I guess I’m the old guy with the life wisdom to share.”

  Shifting my focus to my father’s face, I study it closely. He’s not old, but his hair has more white and gray than blond and it’s getting thin on top. Lines and creases deepen the skin around his eyes and mouth. A few long hairs poke out from his eyebrows. I have no idea the last time I really examined his face, instead taking for granted he’s always the same. Somewhere over the past couple of years, he’s aged.

  “You’re starting to look more like Pops,” I tell him.

  “You think? Your mom keeps telling me to trim my eyebrow hairs and threatens to buzz my ears with clippers while I sleep if I don’t keep the fuzz in check.” He points to his earlobe. “I say it’s just more of me to love.”

  He’s sounding more like his dad, too. I wonder at what point I’ll begin to mimic Ken Donnely. Maybe I already do.

  “There are worse things to be compared to than Clifford Donnely,” I reassure him.

  “Truth in that.” His smile is wistful and a little sad. “I miss him.”

  “Me too.” I clear the thick emotion from my throat. “So what advice would you give me?”

  “Are you asking because you’re curious or are you being polite?” Dad sets down his tools.

  “You said you’re the old guy with wisdom to share.”

  He scratches his cheek and focuses on the ceiling. “Well, I suppose it’s a little late for the sex talk.”

  We both snort.

  “Right.” He laughs. “I will say every kid is different. You’ll never feel like you know what you’re doing. Most parenting is winging it and trying to survive the day. At least with newborns. Then when you finally figure things out, you’ve got toddlers hell bent on testing every last one of your nerves. They’ll seem easy when you get to teenager year and the rules change again. Buckle up and try to enjoy the ride.”

  “Winging it and wear a seatbelt? That’s the wisdom? Reminds me of when you taught me how to drive.”

  “Pretty much.” He nods with a smile. “Your mom can probably tell you about schedules and avoiding sugar and tiring them out, but the truth is, you have to learn on the job.”

  “Kind of like welding.”

  “Hopefully avoiding open flames and melting things. At least during the first years.” He opens the door to his mini fridge under the workbench. “Want a beer?”

  I accept the bottle of Alaskan Amber he hands me. After twisting off the cap, I clink the glass against his.

  “Oh, and find a good hiding place. Garage, workshop. Preferably someplace just out of shouting range.”

  “I’m guessing you’ve reorganized your tools more
times than needed over the years.”

  He sweeps the screwdrivers into a pile and dumps them back into the bottom of his toolbox. With a wink, he says, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Eventually, Nick shows up. With his short brown hair and clean cut appearance, he’s a good-looking guy. In his button down and khakis, he’s definitely working on perfecting his dad look. I wonder if Lori buys his clothes and styling products for his hair. Dad hands him a beer.

  “I was told I had ten minutes to bring you both inside so we can start the games,” he apologizes as he sips his beer. “I set the timer on my phone so we have eight minutes before the second unit will arrive.”

  “Who’s the second unit?”

  “My mother,” Dad says, his voice serious.

  I laugh at the thought of him cowering from Gramma Ellie. “I guess you never grow out of being afraid of pissing off your mom.”

  He lifts his beer. “See? My wisdom is already rubbing off on you.”

  After finishing my bottle, I chuck it into the recycling bin. “What sort of games are we talking about?”

  “If I remember from our shower, there’s the classic Guess the Contents of a Diaper. Probably a round of guessing the circumference of the baby bump. And my personal favorite, betting on gender, weight, and birthday. My advice, if you’re asking for it, is always guess chocolate and underestimate how big your wife’s waist has gotten.” Nick’s advice is basic, but smart.

  I tell him thanks and jerk my head toward the door. “Ready?”

  “Oh, and another thing. Practice your happy smile. Ooh and ahh when she opens the gifts, but don’t overdo it. And don’t ask what something is for or make jokes,” Nick continues with his advice, his brow lined with worry.

  “My happy smile?” I ask both men.

  “Show us,” Nick says.

  I smile at them, showing lots of teeth.

  “Not that. Maybe try nodding while you do it. Focus on how thrilled you are to be at the shower,” Nick advises.

  “I’m not.” I lift my eyebrows and keep smiling.

  “We can tell,” Dad says.

  “Shows that much?” I ask, feeling guilty I’m not more excited about today.

  The two of them exchange a look.

  “That bad?” I change my smile and widen my eyes.

  Dad inhales through his teeth. “That’s worse. Think about how much you love Hailey and how much you’re going to love your kid. Keep your eyes on the long game. This is a marathon.”

  Nick’s phone buzzes and he glances at the screen. “We’ve been summoned.”

  “Can’t wait!” I pump my fist.

  “This should be interesting,” Dad mutters, giving his tools a longing look.

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” I shake out my arms and roll my shoulders. “You’re both forgetting women love me. It’s my pheromones and charming personality. I’ve got this.”

  Questions I think but am smart enough not to ask during the Opening of the Gifts:

  Why ducks? They don’t exactly have a reputation for being friendly.

  What’s up with all the hippo books? Those beasts are vicious assholes.

  At what point did nipple cream become a topic for mixed company?

  When did I start using phrases like “mixed company” and sounding like Gramma Ellie?

  Who came up with this bizarre ritual in the first place?

  Would it be rude to ask my mom to get me a slice of cake?

  How many clothes does a baby need?

  And why are we the proud owners of so many blankets?

  So many blankets. And quilts and swaddling cloths and loops of cloth we can use to strap the baby to our bodies.

  Good news. I know what a Boppy is now.

  That mystery’s been solved.

  The thing’s super comfortable. I sit through the remainder of the present unwrapping with the Boppy curled around my middle.

  Hailey sags after opening the last of the gifts. A silver rattle—talk about a random gift and potential weapon. Her lids droop with exhaustion.

  Gently touching her arm, I ask, “Tired?”

  “I could nap. Who knew generosity could be so draining?” She widens her eyes to appear more awake, but then yawns, ruining the illusion.

  I glance at the huge pile of gifts. “It’s overwhelming. Why do we need so much stuff for a human who won’t do more than eat, shit, and sleep for months? I doubt kids in the middle of the Gobi Desert have a Boppy.”

  She gives me a sleepy smile. “Do we need to buy another one for you?”

  I pat the soft green fabric. “Maybe.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Thanksgiving is an exercise in controlled chaos. Two weeks after the shower and we all gather at my parents’ house again. Hailey’s parents join the Donnely clan, pushing our count over twenty people—not including the four foot and under crowd of pint-sized offspring.

  Per tradition, the men folk watch football while the women get the meal ready. We’re not crazy enough to try to offer assistance. It’d be like a little leaguer thinking he could pitch in the pros. Our jobs today include staying out of the way, praising the cooking, and eating seconds, even thirds to prove how thankful we are for family. Being a pro, Dad’s wearing loose fleece lounge pants with an elastic waist.

  Between sisters, mothers, grandmothers, daughters, and wives, the women in the kitchen represent every living generation of this family. More proof the Donnely men are not only not in charge, but vastly outnumbered.

  I’ve learned an important life lesson today. Joking about being barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen isn’t funny if your wife is all three of those things. At least not to the woman in question.

  Thirty-six weeks pregnant, Hailey insists on supervising from her seat at the kitchen table. I think she’s in charge of rolling silverware in cloth napkins this year. Last time I checked on her from the safety of the hall, she had her socked feet propped on a chair and two baskets in front of her.

  Okay, so she’s not truly barefoot.

  I dash into the hub of female power to grab a fresh bag of tortilla chips for the seven layer dip. Like in Wonder Woman, I’m Steven Trevor crashing into the Amazons’ island. With a quick kiss to Hailey’s forehead, I check in on my own wonder woman without hovering. “You having fun?”

  “Sorting place settings is the most boring thing ever,” she whispers. “I’m thinking about stealing a few sips of your mom’s white zin when she’s not looking.”

  I dip my chin and frown. “I’d prefer my daughter wait until at least college to develop a taste for pink wine.”

  At the word daughter, all hum of activity in the room ceases.

  My eyes widen as I stare at Hailey. In a stage whisper even my grandmother can hear, I ask, “They heard me, didn’t they?”

  Hailey loudly sighs. “He’s teasing you. We don’t know. I swear.”

  My mom’s exhale is loud enough to carry across the kitchen. “Thomas Clifford, it’s not nice to tease.”

  “I’m an elderly woman,” Gramma chides me before softening her tone. “I might not make it another month. You can tell me and I’ll take it to my grave.”

  “Nice try.” Giving my grandmother a disappointed shake of my head, I stand and then walk toward her. “You’re in perfect health and will probably outlive us all. Plus, you’re the first number at the top of the Donnely family phone tree, aka the grapevine. I love you, but you’re completely untrustworthy.”

  “It’s so old-fashioned not to find out.” My middle sister Cara gives her unwanted opinion.

  I stare up at the ceiling and exhale. “Didn’t we go over this at the baby shower? We’re not finding out. And, Gramma, don’t try to get the info out of our doctor again while she’s at the grocery store.”

  Gramma Ellie widens her eyes into an expression that mirrors my own attempts to appear innocent. I must get it from her. “Who told you? Was it one of those gossips? Sally?”

  “Our obstetrician
did, Mrs. Donnely. At our last appointment. Said you were very persistent,” Hailey says, her voice soft.

  Gramma huffs. “That’s ridiculous. I was just making conversation in the cashier’s line. As one does. People used to be more friendly around here.” She busies herself with opening a can of fried onions and sprinkling them over the top of her green bean casserole.

  I make eye contact with my mother, who shrugs as she sips her glass of wine. Sighing, I say, “I don’t get what the big deal is.”

  “You won’t tell us the gender. Or the name. You’re ruining all the fun.” Mom’s disappointment’s clear in her voice.

  “Lori didn’t find out either.” I throw my youngest sister under the bus like we’re seven and five again.

  “Yeah, and I kind of wished we’d found out before Noah was born. Easier to plan things. Definitely for the next kiddo.”

  “Are you trying?” Amy asks, her voice full of excitement.

  “You basically asked Lori if she’s having lots of unprotected sex. In front of Mom, Gramma, and Mrs. King.” I drop my jaw open in faux shock.

  My mother-in-law pats my shoulder, her green eyes full of amusement. “Tom, I know how babies are made.”

  Jesus on a saltine. I glance at Hailey, who is silently shaking with silent laughter as she focuses on her task of bundling silverware inside napkins. The woman could get a job rolling cigars. She’s very good with her hands.

  I need to switch the channel in my head from Hailey’s manual dexterity back to the topic. “What’s the big deal? You have other grandkids you can fawn over.”

  My oldest sister, Amy, snorts. “It’s because you’re the boy.”

  “That’s not true,” Mom argues. “You only become a parent once for the first time. This is special. And don’t twist my words, Amy. I love each and every grandchild with my whole heart.”

  “Oh, please. Tom’s always been your favorite.” Lori takes a big sip of her own wine. I notice two empty bottles on the counter already.

  “I don’t have a favorite,” Mom attempts to defend herself. After brushing her hands on her apron, she settles them on her hips, glaring at my sisters.