We turn to one another, my hand reaching up to trace his handsome face before he takes it in his own and kisses my knuckles. And that’s how we both fall asleep. Embracing one another, me feeling a comfort I have never felt in this life before. Safe, happy, and warm. With Owen.
After that first night that Owen stays over, it’s rare that he goes back to his house to sleep. He doesn’t care when Rosie screams three times a night for milk or a nappy change. He still occasionally tries to get up, but I draw the line there. Rosie is my responsibility, especially during the night, and it feels like accepting too much to let him.
So, as the days continue on, Rosie keeps getting bigger and bolder. Life is still as crazy as ever, my flat feeling smaller by the day, the mess always piling up, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
She is everything I didn’t know I wanted or needed. My little girl.
“So, I hate to ask, but I’m going to,” my mum says through the line as I check the baby monitor. Rosie’s been sleeping for the past hour, and I’m hoping I get another hour out of her before she wakes so I can get some laundry done.
“What is it, Mum?” I ask, not having the time to beat around the bush.
“Have you heard from Beck?”
Annoyance prickles my skin at the mention of his name. But my heart doesn’t drop, and I don’t want to sink into the couch, so I take that as a good thing. I’m long past my heartbreak from him, it now having been over a year since I sold his shit and hightailed it out of Edinburgh.
“No, Mum,” I respond. “He didn’t reply when I told him about her birth, and that was the final nail in the coffin. I refuse to waste any more time on that asshole.”
“Good,” she says, making me laugh. “He’s a right tosser and doesn’t deserve to know your beautiful baby girl.”
I grin, despite her not being able to see it, and go to grab some of Rosie’s baby singlets. They fold in one turn, and I manage to move through them quickly, wanting to have the house looking semi-decent before Owen gets here later.
Mum and I talk for a little longer before the baby monitor goes off and I have to say my goodbyes. I throw the rest of the clothes back into the basket, where they will probably stay for the next week, and hurry to my room.
What I’m not prepared for is the smell that wreaks havoc on my senses when I open the door. I nearly gag as I turn on the light and go toward Rosie, already knowing the carnage I’m about to find.
Looking down, I see my giggly little girl, her big blue eyes shining up at me as she sucks on her fingers. Yet that isn’t what gives me pause. It’s the big brown stain seeping out of her nappy.
Every mum I spoke to told me this day would come. They called it a poonami because it is a literal wave of shit. I didn’t get it then, but I sure as hell do now.
“You’re pretty pleased with yourself, aren’t you?” I ask as I stare down at her, her small face looking up at me.
“You’re really making Mummy work for it today, aren’t you?”
Reaching over, I hold my breath, knowing I’m going to have to change her bottom sheet and probably clean the mattress. Gross.
She continues to smile, not a care in the world as I attempt to get her outfit off before tossing it into a pile across the room. Putting on the nappy and wiping the mess without her wriggling is the hard part.
She continues to think everything is hilarious, and despite literally being covered in shit, I can’t help it. I smile.
After a fresh nappy and a long walk through Hyde Park, Rosie and I are exhausted, anxiously awaiting Owen to get home. To say she’s infatuated with him would be an understatement; she’s obsessed.
At six p.m. sharp the front door buzzes, Rosie’s eyes widening at the sound. I make sure she is secure in her little seat and go open it. Owen’s handsome face is focused on his phone as I pull the door open. He doesn’t hesitate to put it away and pull me into his arms.
Our lips connect all too briefly before Rosie begins cooing, Owen’s face lighting up at the sound.
“Someone has been waiting for you,” I tell him.
“Have you been waiting for me?” he asks in a soft voice as he beelines to the kitchen, always washing his hands.
Rosie reaches out her small grabby hand, practically begging for Owen to pick her up. He carefully undoes her straps then pulls her out, immediately kissing her head.
“You should have seen the mess she did in her crib earlier,” I say as I hand him a beer. He takes it and I throw myself down on the couch.
He sits on the floor, his back against the couch so he can lean Rosie against his bent legs, facing him.
He laughs. “Oh God, was it traumatic?”
“Yes! It took me nearly an hour to get the smell out. She, on the other hand, thought the entire thing was hilarious. I mean, how does something that small create a mess so big? It’s not like she eats anything other than breast milk and formula!”
“Wait till she starts solids in a next month.”
I cringe at the thought.
“Did you make a mess for Mummy today?” he asks her, pinching her chubby little cheeks.
“It’s okay, Rosie. Mummy forgives you.”
She beams, looking at Owen as he plays with her, the two of them
