Operation Bailey Babies

Wyatt

“I’m doing it, aren’t I?” I ask, ignoring Brooklyn’s eyes on the back of my head, probably plotting my death.

I’ve read that sometimes a woman’s personality changes when she’s pregnant, and that’s definitely been the case in our home. My sweet bride has turned to that thing from the Alien movie.

She critiques everything and went so far as to tell me I don’t love my child if I don’t paint his room myself.

At first I thought she was pissed off because we were having a boy. One look at Brooklyn and everyone knows she’s a girl mom.

She’s meant to shower our child with pretty clothes and cute hairstyles, take her shopping for prom dresses and enjoy spa trips together.

She’s not the get-down-and-dirty type. What’s going to happen when our boy brings her his first worm or outside creature?

I’m determined that my son will not experience my upbringing of concrete parks in the middle of a city. My son will explore the outdoors. We’ll do it together.

“That gray isn’t the one I gave you. Did you give the right number to Jack?”

I clench my jaw. “Jack said he matched it.”

“It doesn’t look the same. It’s lighter.”

“Maybe you should call him.”

“Don’t get snippy with me. I’m just saying the gray was darker.”

I push the roller up and down the wall, trying to have a light touch and feeling incompetent. I didn’t paint the rest of my house because I suck at painting.

I’m a firm believer everyone has their talents, and painting isn’t one of mine.

But here I am so that Brooklyn doesn’t go into early labor from being angry that I hired professionals to decorate our nursery.

“This should’ve been done weeks ago.”

I drop the roller, sit on the floor, and face her. “I’m about to go on strike.”

Her angry stance loosens. “I know, okay? I’m cranky today.” She stands with her hands on her hips, jutting out her very pregnant stomach.

She’s cranky every day, but I don’t say that.

“Do you think this is how I’m gonna be permanently now?” The hiccup in her voice makes me stand.

God, I hope not. I take her in my arms as close as we can get. She’s beautiful pregnant, but I miss cradling her in my arms. “No. I think your hormones are on overload right now.”

She hiccups a sob. “What if it’s, like, me now? I mean, I’m going to nurse and all the same hormones…”

I kiss the top of her head. “You’re going to be fine.”

After a few minutes, her body shifts away from me and her eyes examine the room. “Thank you for painting and not hiring someone.”

I stare at all the edging I still have to do, not to mention some sticker thing she ordered online that I have to apply to the wall after it dries.

Elephants and stars and moons is the theme she picked. Let’s be honest, the kid is going to grow out of this within a year and I’m probably going to have to paint and decorate again to prove my love.

By the time he’s in college, I could probably get a side job as a painter.

“You’re welcome.” I smile at my wife.

“Oh, and don’t forget the crib. Also, Holly said Austin already put in their car seats. We need to do that too.

“My mom went into labor early with Kingston and Juno, so we don’t want to take any chances. They say you take after your mother usually. I will not be those parents who don’t have the car seat in.”

A drop of sweat drips down my back as my anxiety grows. “It will all be finished in time.”

I have my doubts though.

Maybe she wishes she married someone like her brothers because I’ve watched more how-to YouTube videos during her last trimester than I care to admit and I’m starting to feel as though I’m not a real man.

“You’re the best.” She kisses my cheek. “I’ll go make you some lunch.”

She leaves the room and I take the opportunity to sit down and look at the shit job I’ve done.

The streak marks that some guy on YouTube told me was because I pushed too hard on the roller and apparently the only solution is to sand it down and repaint. No, thank you.

I have an entire hotel to run.

All the fears that keep me up at night resurface. Will I be enough for my son? My father and I had a strained relationship.

His need for success was always more important than his need to be a present father.

I swore from the moment Brooklyn told me she was pregnant that I would never be that man, but how much do genetics play into it?

I’m at Glacier Point too much lately, doing what I promised I wouldn’t—micromanaging my staff.

Brooklyn insists that I need to make this nursery for our son in order for it to be special, and maybe she’s right.

I pick up the paint roller and paint again just to get out of my own head—until a huge crash from downstairs causes me to stop mid-stroke and run.