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I eye the piece of cloth suspiciously. It’s supposed to be strong enough to support a baby but honestly, I don’t see how that’s possible. The thing is so thin it’s practically see-through, for fuck’s sake!
"Are you sure I can carry Leo in this?" I ask Baz for the gazillionth time.
"You can. You saw it yourself," he answers, also for the gazillionth time. "It's safe. I promise."
I utter a humph.
It's not that I don't trust Baz. I do. I would trust him with my life, in fact. But Leo’s life is so much more important than mine.
At the moment, though, our baby is safe. He's sleeping in his crib. (And not dangling from my shoulders in a cotton cloth thinner than my grandma's scarves.) His tiny hands are fisted on each side of his head and on his face plays a myriad of emotions.
Before he came into our lives, I had no idea babies could feel so much all at once. I had no idea I could feel so much all at once. I look at this tiny being — so tiny I could hold him with a single hand — and I feel like I’ve swallowed a galaxy.
I would do anything for him. Anything in the world. (Except change his nappies.) (That's Baz's job.) (We agreed.)
I look at the baby wrap again and whine.
"You promised," Baz reminds me, sipping his coffee.
"I know but—"
"Simon, my darling. My love. It's safe. I swear."
We have a paediatrician appointment today and I did promise to give it a chance because taking the pram on cobbled streets is, let's put it frankly, a bitch. (I really didn't want to at first. I insisted we'd be fine with the pram, but Baz had uh… convincing arguments.)
"It really is very fucking thin," I murmur. "Christ."
"Here, I'll help you," Baz offers, taking his glasses off and putting them on the coffee table next to a new client’s folder he was reviewing.
He stands up and steps behind me.
"Remember the video we watched," he says, his breath warm on my neck. "First, we wrap it around your back."
His slender hands linger on my stomach as he demonstrates the technique.
"Then over the shoulders," he continues, dropping a kiss where neck and shoulder meet. I shudder.
"Feed it through." (I swear Baz has learned this video by heart. What a nerd.)
His fingers wander a bit lower as his lips keep exploring my neck. He presses against me. Cups my crotch. Rubs my cock through the fabric of my jeans.
I tilt my head, granting his mouth easier access, breathing hard. I feel warm. My knees are getting wobbly and my trousers awfully tight.
"Baz," I pant. "Baz. Please. Not with this thing on. No mixing baby and sexy times, remember?"
My husband groans under his breath but tears himself from me. "As you wish," he says, dropping a chaste kiss on my cheek. "But for the record, you're incredibly hot in dad mode. Who could blame me?"
I turn my head until I reach his lips. "Let's get this over with, please. If you're a good boy, I might let you watch me take it off when we get home. And the rest of my clothes, too."
If I'm to believe the shit-eating grin he's giving me, Baz isn't averse to the idea. His cheeks colour ever so slightly. I love that the prospect of sex still makes him blush. I love the way his eyes sparkle and the way he bites his lip.
Despite the lack of sleep (and time to shave) (or to wash), he's still gorgeous.
Not like he was when we were younger. He's different now. His bone structure is sharper. He stands straighter, taller. There are a few lines around his eyes and a few grey hairs on his left temple. That put a dent in his ego when he noticed them but, personally, I think they just make him look hotter.
He seems happy, fulfilled. Radiant. And he's still mine.
Baz clears his throat, bringing me back to reality.
"Shall we?" he asks, gesturing towards my abdomen.
I nod. "Yeah, let's."
He grabs the wrap again.
“Adjust. Crisscross. Tie in the front,” he enunciates as his hands deftly tie the cloth around my waist. They work faster this time. They’re not letting him be distracted.
“And now?” he asks when he’s done.
“Apply baby.”
“Apply baby,” Baz confirms. “I’ll get him.”
“But he’s finally sleeping!”
“I know, love, but it’s almost time to leave for the appointment anyway,” Baz reasons.
I scowl but he’s right. I know he’s right. “Fine. Don’t wake him up, though."
“I’ll be careful.”
I watch Baz pick up our son from his crib on the baby monitor. He’s gentle. So gentle. Leo squirms and whimpers as his father extracts him from the comfort and warmth of his bed and my breath catches in my throat. I spent too long trying to get him to sleep for Baz to wake him up now.
He doesn’t though. Wake him up, that is. When Baz comes back carrying our baby against his chest, his long hand covering almost the entirety of his back, Leo is miraculously still asleep, his mouth sucking on an imaginary teat. He’s so chubby everywhere. I want to eat him.
Carefully, Baz passes the baby to me. “Now,” he whispers, “put him in the piece of fabric closest to your chest.”
“I know, babe. I watched the video,” I say as I secure Leo in the wrap. “I just don’t like it.”
“I know you don't but people have done this for centuries. It's safe, trust me,” Baz says, helping me position the third piece of fabric correctly over Leo’s backside. “There. Should be good. How do you feel?”
I have to admit that I feel pretty good, actually. I can feel Leo breathing against my chest, tiny tummy rising and falling, again and again. His warmth blends with mine where our bodies meet; I’ve never felt closer to him. My heart is bursting with love and when I look up at Baz to tell him so, he’s looking at us with so much pride and adoration, I’m falling in love with him all over again.
“I feel fantastic,” I tell Baz, cradling his cheek and swiftly closing the space between us, eventually breaking the kiss with a contented sigh.
Leo squirms between us and I take a quick step back to make sure he’s all right.
“I’m scared though, babe,” I say as soon as I have confirmed we haven’t accidentally crushed him. “He’s so small. What if something happens to him? I mean, look at him. He’s tiny! Defenceless! Useless one might even say!"
Baz snorts. “He won’t be that small forever. He’ll grow up. He’ll grow strong, like you.”
“I can’t imagine him ever growing up,” I reply, swaying slowly to rock our sleeping child. (I don’t want to imagine him growing up.)
“Don’t worry, I’m sure that, soon enough, you'll be eating sickening amounts of cheeseburgers together," Baz jokes, checking his watch. “It’s almost time for the appointment. Are you ready to go?”
“Humph. If we must. Are you sure it’s tight enough?”
“As a test, kiss their head to make sure that they're close enough,” he says, quoting the video. (Nerd.) “Can you kiss his head?”
I can and I do.
Baz looks satisfied. “That’s perfect,” he says quietly.
He kisses Leo’s head in turn. Then mine, his lips lingering a little longer on my skin, his fingers on the nape of my neck a little rougher.
His mouth finds mine and kisses. Licks. Bites. Just a little. Just enough to make me moan, wordlessly begging for more. (Maybe sexy times and baby times can mix a little. As a treat.)
But he pulls away; rubs his thumb against my lower lip. He looks at me, his entire being vibrating with love. With longing, too. I know. I'm the same. We match. We've always matched.
He's lost in me, as I am in him. I could drown in the deep waters of his eyes.
He smiles. “Just perfect.”