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“He’ll probably wake up in another hour,” Rim said, slinging a small red leather purse over her shoulder. The heavy black baby bag sat on the entryway bench, unneeded. “Remember to put the bottle in the warmer while you change his diaper – and not in the microwave.”
Hwa nodded earnestly. “No microwaving milk, got it.”
“There’s more in the bags in the fridge if he’s still hungry.” Rim slid her feet into red leather pumps. “And don’t forget to check his diaper often. That rash only just went away. Keep using the cream just in case.”
“Check diaper. Got it. Don’t worry, Papa Hwa is on the job!” Hwa pretended to salute, and Rim laughed. “You’ll only be gone a couple hours. I’m sure we’ll be fine.”
Rim waved goodbye and drove off in a shining black Mustang – off to a long-awaited girls’ night out, her first solo trip since Doha’s birth.
“I’ve got this,” Hwa declared, and peered at the baby monitor screen. Little Doha slept peacefully in his nursery crib. “Piece of cake.”
Forty-five minutes later, an ear-splitting wail shattered Hwa’s concentration. Soft baby-blue yarn wrapped around a pair of knitting needles bounced off the couch and onto the floor. “Papa’s coming, little one!” Hwa remembered the bottle warmer when he was halfway up the stairs and spun around on the landing to sprint back to the kitchen.
The fridge held a full baby bottle – check – into the bottle warmer it went – check. Doha’s wails continued unabated. Hwa sprinted back upstairs, leaping them three at a time. He barged into the nursery – its walls painted cerulean blue with a sailing motif – and scooped the swaddled infant into his arms. “There there my boy, Papa’s got you,” Hwa cooed.
Doha stopped wailing but made discontented grumbling noises. Hwa set him on the changing table and began poking and prodding the swaddle. This one appeared to have at least a dozen snaps and velcro attachments – Doha started crying as soon as Hwa finally got enough of it loosened to pull off.
“Noooo, don’t cry, darling!” Hwa cajoled, faced with another row of snaps to navigate on Doha’s footie pajamas. “You need a clean diaper, and Papa’s going to take care of you–” Tiny legs pumped in protest, but Hwa finally got the pajamas loose and checked the diaper – damp.
Hwa pulled it off and neatly rolled the soiled diaper into a ball for disposal. Doha gurgled. Grabbing a fresh diaper and the diaper cream from the shelf next to the changing table, Hwa looked back at the wiggling baby just in time to see an enthusiastic fountain dampening his pajamas, the swaddle, and the changing table cushion.
“Oooooh noooo! Doha, how could you?!” Hwa exclaimed. Hwa used a few baby wipes to mop Doha while he cooed and tried to turn over.
“Let’s get you into some new clothes,” Hwa said firmly. He tucked the clean diaper under Doha. Hwa found that fastening the diaper was another matter – Doha kept pulling his knees up towards his pudgy belly, preventing Hwa from getting a good look at how well the diaper tabs were aligned – and then Doha started wailing again.
“Okay okay here we go!” Hwa swept the crying baby onto his shoulder and strode downstairs without bothering with new clothes. The house was warm enough, surely. He grabbed a tiny baby cap just in case. “One bottle, coming right up!”
In the kitchen, Hwa snagged the bottle from the warmer… that he had forgotten to turn on. The milk was still cold, but Doha was crying so much, Hwa decided to give it a try anyway. Sitting on a barstool he pulled out from the kitchen island, Hwa cradled Doha in his arm and tried to get him to latch on the bottle. At first it seemed a success – Doha bit down on the rubber nipple – but just as quickly released it, redoubling his screams.
“Oh no, I’m so sorry, I’ll warm it properly!” Hwa hastily pushed the button and plopped the bottle back into the warmer.
Pacing around the kitchen island with Doha screaming on his shoulder felt like the longest five minutes of Hwa’s life. At last a soft ding sounded from the bottle warmer.
“Here we go, here we go,” he mumbled while he fished the now-warmed bottle out of its hot water bath. Thinking better of the barstool – how did such a small child wiggle so hard? Hwa felt paradoxically proud of his strong baby boy – he retreated to the living room couch and propped himself by one of the arms. “Nice warm milk!”
Doha, his tiny face scrunched up in displeasure, vehemently refused the bottle’s plastic nipple again, redoubling his cries. “Waaaaah!
Hwa tried again – but Doha kept wiggling and shoving the bottle out of his mouth with his tongue, his tiny face scrunched up and purpling with rage.
Tears prickled at Hwa’s eyes, too. “Please take the bottle,” he begged his crying child. “Please take it for papa, mommy will be back later but for now you should eat!”
Doha was having none of it. Hwa couldn’t figure out what he was doing wrong. Heuk-yeong. Surely his best friend would know what to do. Hwa set the bottle down on the couch next to him and fished his phone out of his pocket, nearly fumbling the device onto the floor as Doha made a concerted effort to wiggle right off his father’s lap.
Hwa set the crying, hiccupping child on one shoulder while he pressed Heuk-yeong’s quick-dial number. The phone rang.
“Hwa? You’re still on leave, why are you calling-” Heuk-yeong must’ve heard Doha’s loud shriek, because he stopped talking.
“Please come save us,” begged Hwa, a tear trickling down one cheek. “Doha won’t-”
“I don’t have any experience with children and I’m swamped with work because you’re still on paternity leave,” Heuk-yeong said. Hwa could clearly picture how the veins on the other man’s head would be throbbing with aggravation. “Call Nakgeora.” Click.
“How rude!” Hwa muttered, blinking another tear out of his eye.
“Ah-ah-ah-waaaaah!” agreed Doha.
Hope kindled in Hwa’s heart. Surely Nakgeora would know what to do? His old teacher had plenty of experience with children. Well, older children at least. One older child. He pressed another quick-dial number.
The phone rang and rang and Hwa started tearing up again, thinking Nakgeora wasn’t going to answer. Huge tears rolled down his cheeks.
“Good evening,” the smooth tones of Hwa’s old mentor never sounded so soothing.
“Help!” Hwa cried into the phone. Doha added his own cries to the entreaty.
“I’ll be there as soon as possible,” Nakgeora said. “Do you need me to bring anything?”
“No just come! He won’t eat!”
“Fifteen minutes,” promised Nakgeora. He hung up.
Hwa cradled Doha’s tiny sobbing self in his arms and did his best to pace a moat into the floor around the coffee table while he waited. Several eternities passed. At last the door chimed as Nakgeora punched in his access code.
“What’s the problem?” Nakgeora asked, folding his arms across his chest.
Sobbing, Hwa cried, “He won’t take the bottle! He’s starving!” Doha punctuated this statement with a pathetic-sounding whimper.
“Show me the bottle.”
Hwa turned to the couch, but the bottle wasn’t there. “It was right here, I put it down right here!” he babbled.
“Then give me Doha and look for it or get another one,” Nakgeora instructed, carefully plucking the mostly-naked Doha off his father’s shoulder. “I’ll go dress the boy while you get the milk.” He swept up the stairs while Doha made disgruntled protesting whines.
Hwa checked the floor, then the cushions, and found the bottle wedged into the couch and leaking. He yanked it out and stuffed a burp cloth onto the wet spot, then carried the bottle back into the kitchen to put it into the warmer again.
Nakgeora strode into the kitchen as if he owned it, carrying a fuzzy-pajama-clad Doha in the crook of his arm. The boy was grumbling a bit but no longer crying at the top of his lungs. “Bottle,” he said, holding out a hand.
“It’s not warmed back up enough yet,” Hwa whined. “He’ll reject it again!”
“If it isn’t cold we might as well try it and see,” Nakgeora declared.
Hwa handed him the bottle. Nakgeora took it and squeezed until a bit of milk beaded up on the nipple. “Now, child, eat,” he commanded, and tapped the droplet against Doha’s lip.
To Hwa’s amazement, Doha licked at the lukewarm milk for a moment and then sucked the bottle into his mouth, chomping and sucking on it with a will. “How did you do that?” he gasped.
Hwa might have seen Nakgeora smile, if he’d been looking. Instead the new father was staring enraptured at the baby now obligingly drinking his meal.
“He must have worked up an appetite,” Nakgeora said mildly. Soon the bottle was half-done, and he pulled it away, much to Doha’s displeasure, and handed him back to his father. “Burp him before giving him the rest.” Nakgeora said.
Nodding vigorously, Hwa patted Doha’s back while tiny fists yanked on his hair. The two men moved back to the couch, and under Nakgeora’s watchful eye, Doha drank the rest of his bottle in his father’s arms.
When Rim returned later that night, she found Hwa under a blanket on the couch and Doha tucked neatly back into his swaddle in his crib, both sound asleep. In the kitchen, the empty bottle sat drying on its rack next to the sink.
“Well, it must have gone fine after all,” Rim chuckled to herself.