Fresh sheets on the bed, skin warmed by the shower, the scent of soap caught in droplets of water rolling off our bodies. Collapsing into each other, he fitting into me, my sighs finding light in all the right places. And then? Twenty seconds away, and Callum shows up at the side of our bed.
There he is, our sweet little boy, bottle in one hand, his stuffed dog in the other as he looks up at us with wide eyes.
“Stop it,” he says. His command is unnecessary, as it was more over in that second than if my Grandma Hutchins showed up holding a Bible and a package of her frostbitten ginger chocolates.
Andrew called the next day at around noon, and I scrambled to answer the phone, still wearing my pajama pants and a pink unicorn tee that says “I poop magic.”
“Hey, do you need the MacBook?” he asked. “I need to swing by home and pick it up so I can look up some properties.”
“Oh yeah, for sure,” I replied. “Just to warn you, I’m super gross. I’m in the middle of cleaning bathrooms.”
“Oh.” Andrew sounded disappointed. “I was thinking we could have a little fun over lunch break. How about you quickly jump into the shower?”
He had barely finished his sentence before I started flinging my clothes into the hamper with my toes so that I could get all clean and fluffy. While Andrew walked through the door, I thundered down the stairs to give Callum my phone and a mini chocolate bar to keep him busy for the next little while.
Hands through hair, fingers in mouths, my right leg creeping up his left side, his hands cupping my face, we collapse into a heap onto our bed…into the exact same spot that I use to change Callum’s poopy diapers.
I keep the moaning constant to avoid the buzzkill while my eyes scan for baby powder marks on the duvet cover, and then I remember that I had just washed the sheets that day as Callum had peed through his diaper onto the linens that very morning. Relaxing with the reassurance that my face is indeed pressing into a high thread count free of E.Coli, I let myself give into a wave of ecstasy, which is then interrupted by the shrill sound of the acoustic guitar ringtone on Andrew’s cell coming from downstairs somewhere.
“DA-DYYYYY! PHONE!!!!” Callum shouts from the family room. I shake my head and murmur a sound that can only mean, “You take that phone call, and I stick your cell phone into the side of your neck.” And then Andrew’s phone rings again. And again.
“It sounds like an emergency,” I admit with defeat. He flies down the stairs, grabs his phone from Callum and sees that it’s the middle school that has tried to call. Worried, Andrew calls the school and finds out that everything is in fact, fine. And then Wendy (his ex wife) calls, so he answers, of course, because we don’t know what the fuck is going on.
Andrew is standing stark naked in the kitchen with his wiener stuck out like a derailed train as he talks to his ex wife about absolute fuck all, while Callum stares up at us with chocolate smeared cheeks, my phone in his hands, while I’m leaning up against the counter contemplating the idea of putting on my running shoes and hitting the treadmill for a tempo run while I’ve got some available childcare.
Andrew gets off the phone with Wendy, I hand Callum another 450 calories worth of carcinogenic oil product and we head back upstairs to resolve our unfinished business.
“Is it even going to work after all that?” I ask him.
Andrew and I have a lot of faults. We go through a lot of shit. We are complete fuckups in the worst ways, but? Somehow, we make it work.