Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
I undid his wrap, then pulled him out and walked over to the oversized rocker in the corner near the window that overlooked the backyard.
I pulled down my robe and helped him latch before glancing out the window, looking at the tall stone walls that encased our back garden, then looked down to see Goya in the lush grass we’d planted and painstakingly maintained for him. He was whipping a giant stick around, nearly knocking himself out with it.
He’d been a trooper about the baby since the first day he’d noticed my belly moving as the baby kicked inside.
When we brought our son home, he followed him around anywhere he went. If we put him down in his crib instead of the bassinet near our bed, Goya chose to sleep in the nursery, keeping guard.
When the baby cried, he cried too.
Though he did have a habit of trying to steal the plushies that had been gifted to us at the giant, lavish, lovely baby shower.
I slipped my finger into my son’s tiny hand, watching it curl tight, and feeling my heart swell near to bursting.
I’d known my whole life that I wanted to be a mom. And it was everything that I hoped it would be and more. Especially with a partner like Nico at my side. Someone who was often quicker to move than I was, rushing to change a diaper, rock him back to sleep, or feed him some of the breast milk I pumped and kept in the fridge.
Anytime I caught him with our son, I realized how important it was to choose the right person. Someone calm and steady and dependable. Someone who wanted to carry their half of the load. Or more, sometimes, when I needed a break.
As I lifted our son to my shoulder, the twinkling sound of our doorbell chimed and I could hear Nico making his way down the front hall to answer it.
We were forever having drop-ins since we moved in. They’d only increased after we had the baby.
I couldn’t be happier about it.
It wasn’t even just Nico’s siblings, either. It was the whole Costa crew. They came with meals to throw in the freezer, with coffee, with snacks, with offers to watch the baby so we could nap or shower or just step outside of the house for an hour or two, or even to take Goya for a walk.
It never ceased to amaze me how I’d gotten exactly what I wanted.
The man of my dreams.
Motherhood.
And the giant, crazy, supportive, beautiful family I’d always craved.
“That was quick,” I said when Nico came upstairs to lean in the doorway, watching us with a tender look in his eyes.
“It was just Ezmeray dropping off a lasagna. She had four dogs with her on the way to the groomer.”
“Lasagna sounds good,” I decided. Our freezer was packed with every kind of dish you could imagine. We wouldn’t need to cook for weeks. And by then, more food would replace it. Because when the Costas did community, they did it hard.
This was my first foray into being on the receiving end of it. But while I’d been pregnant, another of the wives had given birth, allowing me to be part of the preparing and delivery of meals to make her life easier during such a precious time.
“I love your family,” I told him for what had to be the millionth time.
“Our family,” he corrected, coming over to lift our now-sleeping son, cradling him in the crook of his arm for a moment before placing him down to reach for me. His arms slid around my lower back, pulling me close.
“Our family,” I agreed, leaning up to press my lips to his.
Nico - 6 years
“It might help if we don’t trample the bushes while we try to get flowers for Mommy,” I suggested to our son who didn’t have a delicate bone in his body. He’d been a bulldozer from the second he learned to crawl.
He was five and all energy, stained clothes, and an almost alarmingly large appetite.
Even as I thought that, he reached into his pocket and produced half a cheese stick of dubious freshness and popped it into his mouth.
Our daughter, on the other hand, was all careful softness. She was three going on thirty with her soulful dark blue eyes and quiet consideration of the world around her.
I had a feeling that she was going to be like her great-grandmother one day, artistic and talented. But with a family that would nurture that skill so she could use it for more than greeting cards for loved ones. If that was what she wanted.
Her brother? Well, his idea of finger painting had been slamming his fist into the paint so it squirted all over.
We weren’t holding our breaths for any masterpieces from him.