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Logan
August
In the month since Blake was born, I’ve experienced one hell of a learning curve. I’ve learned that babies are born with something like 300 bones, that newborns go through 10 diapers a day, that they will randomly stop fucking breathing for a few seconds and that’s “perfectly normal” (aka really fucking terrifying), that baby girls can basically have a period, and that my daughter likes football, apparently.
I’ve also come to expect a lot: sleepless nights, shitty gas station coffee tasting like goddamn heaven after said sleepless nights, waking up to an empty bed because Grace is in Blake’s room watching her sleep—or to make sure she’s still fucking breathing—and that, 9 times out of 10, when I get home from a game or practice, someone else is in my house. Usually, it’s one of Grace’s parents. Her mom was here 2 weeks before Blake was born and only left last week, and her dad has made the drive up from Hastings almost every weekday after his classes. Both of my parents have come by, too—on as completely opposite schedules as possible. And Jeff and Kylie came by for the first time while Grace’s mom was here to visit and drop off food (bless them).
And of course, Blake’s aunts and uncles. I can’t keep my best friends away from her. Not that I’d want to.
So when I walk into the house after practice today, I’m expecting someone to be there. Not Hannah, because, according to Garrett, she’s with the twins at her parents’ place this evening, but maybe Grace’s dad or her best friend Daisy.
I do not expect to hear sobbing. That immediately makes my heart race more than any amount of bag skating could.
“Gracie?” I call out from the front hall. I sound absolutely terrified. Because I am. “Gracie, where are you?”
A muffled, “B-bedroom,” answers me.
In this moment, I regret buying an almost 8,000-square foot house, because it takes me 10 seconds to sprint to our bedroom, which is 10 seconds too long.
And when I get there, I definitely don’t expect the sight in front of me: Grace sitting on the floor surrounded by what looks like every piece of clothing from her closet and Blake wailing in her baby bouncer beside her.
I throw myself onto the ground next to them, not caring that some sequined garment is digging uncomfortably into my knees, and pull Grace into my chest with one hand while fiddling with Blake’s seat buckle with my other.
Grace is still sniffling into my T-shirt as I reach around her to gently lift Blake from the bouncer and put her on my shoulder. When she quiets down after a few seconds, I finally let myself breathe. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve felt my heart ripped out of my chest and my lungs empty like this: that day junior year when Garrett had to come help me clean my dad’s vomit off the floor, when G told us his dad used to hit him (but that was pretty much instantly replaced by blind rage and the desire to bash Philip Graham’s good-for-nothing face into the boards until he didn’t have any chiclets left to spit), and right now, seeing both my girls in tears.
“Gracie, baby,” I whisper into Grace’s hair. “Baby, what’s wrong? Are you okay? Are you hurt? Is Blake okay?” I look down at Blake resting in the crook of my arm, and she looks fine. No bruises, no cuts. All 10 fingers and toes. I hesitate before I continue. “Is it your parents? Is it…mine?” I’ve been expecting Ward Logan to die for years, but he’s been doing so much better the last 5 or so that I kind of got used to it. But maybe all that drinking finally caught up to him. Maybe—
“Everyone’s—hic—fine—hic—Johnny,” Grace says, each word punctuated with a hiccup as she tries to gather herself. “I’m—hic—sorry that you—hic—came home to this—hic—mess.”
She pulls away just long enough to wipe her cheeks with the sleeves of her hoodie. Actually, now that I’m looking at it, that’s my old Briar hockey hoodie, but, whatever. It can be Grace’s. Everything I am is already hers, anyway. Always has been.
“I don’t give a fuck about the mess, Gracie.” When she doesn’t scold me for swearing around Blake, I know we’re in deep shit. She’s been on me about my mouth for months now. Which is weird, because she doesn’t complain when my mouth is on her.
Focus, Logan.
“I give a f—hoot about you, baby. And you’re not okay. Please tell me what’s wrong.”
Grace takes a shuddery breath into my shoulder. “It’s silly,” she finally says.
I stroke her hair gently. “I promise it’s not silly if it’s upsetting you. Plus, nothing can be sillier than that time you wanted me to promise to eat you if you froze to death in our car.”
That memory earns me a watery smile. Probably because we got married less than 24 hours after I refused to make that pact.
“Please, Gracie,” I say again.
“Iatemyclofs” she says into the collar of my Bruins tracksuit jacket.
“Come again?”
She lifts her head up and looks at me. “I hate my clothes,” she says.
And, for the third time tonight, I encounter yet another thing I wasn’t expecting. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I hate my clothes.”
Yeah, repeating it doesn’t clarify anything for me, but, based on her tone, I think it’s supposed to, so I just shut up and wait for her to keep talking. God love my Gracie, because she does.
“Blake spit up on me this afternoon. No big deal. So we came up here to change, and as I was going through my closet, I found this”—she holds up a piece of black lace lingerie. I know the one, not what it’s called, obviously, but how it looks on her: an open top for easy access to her boobs and lots of criss-crossing straps down her stomach that are a pain in the ass to get her out of and a tiny triangle to cover the good bits; she looks absolutely incredible in it.
“I like that one,” I tell her, trying to keep the want out of my voice, but I can’t help it. I want Grace.
“I do, too!” She’s close to wailing again. “And I thought, ‘Well, we may not have the all-clear from the doctor for p-and-v action yet, but I can still surprise John when he gets home tonight.’”
“Well, consider me surprised, Grace,” I think.
“So I tried it on, and it was disgusting! I was disgusting!”
“Impossible.”
“My boobs were too big and falling out, and my stomach poked through all the straps on my stomach, and the leg straps were digging into my hips—I looked like a sausage, John! A pasty, pale sausage!”
“Baby, I am never going to complain about your boobs falling out.”
Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say, because Grace glares at me.
“So I started trying on my other clothes, and, John, I hate everything. My dresses, my blazers, my leggings—my jeans don’t even fit! I hate my body right now, and I’ve never hated my body so much before.”
I don’t understand. I mean, I do. She hates her body. But I don’t understand why. In the last 10 months, I’ve watched my wife grow and birth an entire human. She gained 30 pounds and looked like she had a beachball shoved under her shirt for months. But she was always hot to me. And I didn’t expect her to look like she did when we were 20 the day after Blake was born. Grace will always be hot to me, even when we’re 80 and gray-haired and wrinkly.
So I guess I just don’t see what she sees. But she obviously doesn’t feel great about whatever she sees in the mirror…and I don’t know what to do about it. I feel like telling her she’s hot will lead to lots of, “You’re just saying that because you love me.” And offering to have Garrett and Hannah watch Blake while we go to the gym together would land me in an argument of, “So you do think I need to lose the baby weight!” And both options are…bad.
So I go with my TMH (Trusty Marriage Hack) that’s played a role in dozens of apologies over the years.
“Do you want to eat ice cream and watch Die Hard?”
Grace
John keeps Blake tucked against his chest and pulls up Die Hard 2 as I start to gather up the clothes I've flung all over our bedroom floor.
"Leave it," he says.
"It's a mess, John."
"It's not like we're going to have guests in our bedroom any time soon," he shrugs. "Get up here and cuddle us, Gracie. The clothes can wait. We'll do it tomorrow. Together."
And as much as I want to argue, to insist that I made the mess and that I'll clean it up, that if I can't be beautiful anymore I'll at least be useful, I don't. Because I'm bone tired, physically and emotionally, and I just want to lay in bed with my husband and our daughter and watch a shitty action movie like I'm an 18-year-old college freshman again.
To be fair, I want everything with John Logan, and over the last decade, I've gotten to do a lot of "everything”—being college sweethearts, losing my virginity, living together, getting married, seeing the world, having a baby—but right now, I really, really just want to lay in our bed with him and do nothing.
The evening in bed is good. Great, even. Needed, definitely. And even though I don’t quite settle down and relax, I attribute it to having had a bad day. But there’s no denying that having Logan beside me and Blake between us makes my world seem less like it’s imploding.
And Logan is a champ overnight. He gets up with Blake every time she cries. He makes her bottle, changes her diaper, rocks her—and he doesn’t complain. I don’t even have the chance to roll over and try to go to her. He just puts a hand on me and says, “Go back to sleep, Gracie. I’ve got her.” My husband is the best.
So when I wake up this morning and there’s still a knot of anxiety gnawing at my chest, I assume it must be the mess of clothes on the floor. While Logan has Blake downstairs—I can hear the telltale theme music of this kids’ show about Australian dogs that Hannah swears up and down by—I decide to clean up.
It doesn’t help.
Nothing helps.
I’m not actively having a breakdown, but I can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong, like when you’re leaving for vacation and you feel like you’ve forgotten something at home.
The feeling gets worse when Logan leaves for practice and it’s just me and Blake in the house.
It doesn’t get much better when he gets back, but at least I have another set of hands to help out while I make dinner. Dinner that I don’t feel much like eating.
“Grace, are you feeling alright?” Logan asks.
I shrug. “Just not hungry today for some reason.”
He looks unconvinced but doesn’t comment. “Well, you go ahead and go to bed. I’ll clean up.”
I don’t fight him on it, more indication that I’m very much not feeling well, and go to bed. It doesn’t ease the tension in my chest.
Neither does spending an hour on the phone with my mom the next day.
Or planning a playdate for Blake with Hannah and the twins for next week.
Or catching up on Fling or Forever.
Not even kissing Logan senseless sitting on the dining room table does it for me. And that always does it for me.
I’m feeling scared and desperate and at my wits end, so I do what I maybe should have done from the beginning and text the girls.
To: Besties Raising Besties
Grace (Ivers) Logan: Can I ask you guys something serious?
Their responses are almost immediate. I’m not surprised. Most of the time, the "Besties Raising Besties” chat ends up being something like this, swapping scary stories of mastitis or sending pictures of weird rashes before we panic-call the pediatrician. Stuff that can’t go in the girls group chat. Not because we don’t love Allie, but because there’s something about the trauma of birth that bonds people. Allie knows we have this chat, and she doesn’t mind, so long as—and I quote—we “put all the cutest baby pics in the all-girls chat.” To which Hannah replied, “What? You don’t want to swap tips on the best way to get shit stains out of upholstery?” (John bought an entire new sectional after Blake’s first diaper blowout.)
Hannah (Wells) Graham: Of course, Grace.
Sabrina James (Tucker): Is everything alright?
GIL: I honestly don’t know. Maybe? I think it WILL BE. I just don’t know what’s wrong.
HWG: I’m coming over. Garrett’s in the shower, but give me 20 minutes and I’m there.
GIL: No no no, Han. It’s not a crisis. No imminent danger.
SJT: Would a FaceTime call be better, then? We can triage it?
In response, I press the call button, and Hannah and Sabrina’s faces appear seconds later.
“Oh, it’s good to see your faces,” is all I get out. And then I’m crying.
“Grace!” Sabrina looks as close to shocked as I’ve ever seen her, and that’s saying something, because that woman is unrufflable. I watched her get gum out of a screaming, wiggling toddler Alex’s hair (put there by big sister Jamie) without so much as batting one of her dark eyelashes.
“I’m—hic—f-fine—hic,” I stutter. “This happens—hic—a l-lot—hic. I j-just…cry!” The last word turns into a mangled wail as I become acutely aware of just how ridiculous I sound. Through my tears, I see Hannah turn her head to talk to someone off-screen, presumably Garrett, and then her screen is shaking.
“I’m coming over,” she says. “Keep talking, but, I’ll be there in, like, 15.”
I rub my shirt sleeve across my face, soiling it with makeup and tears and snot. “H-Hannah, you don’t—hic—have to—hic—come over.”
“Like H-E-double hockey sticks I don’t,” she snaps. On another day, I might chuckle, because Gigi and Wyatt are fully in their will-repeat-anything-they-hear phase, and I can only fathom the self-control it must take for Garrett to keep quiet when they’re within earshot. It’s something I’ve been trying to get John to work on, too, because my husband has the mouth of a sailor.
But today, I don’t chuckle. I don’t even really care that Hannah’s coming over and that the house is a mess and that I’ve been wearing the same sweatpants for a week and that the mascara running down my face is 3 days old. I don’t care that John can probably hear me sobbing from where he is next door in Blake’s nursery or that he hasn’t come to check on me.
I just. Don’t. Care.
“Grace, can you take some deep breaths with me?” I hear Sabrina ask.
At the same time, I hear Hannah’s muffled voice talking to the twins. “Mommy’s going to see Auntie Grace.”
I nod to Sabrina, and she inhales deeply, indicating for me to do the same. In, 2, 3, 4.
“Not today, Gigi. Auntie Grace doesn’t, uh, feel very good.”
We hold the breath for 4 beats.
“I know, sweetie. We’ll have a playdate with Baby Blake as soon as we can.”
Out, 2, 3, 4.
“I don’t know if Uncle Logan can bring Blake here, Wyatt.”
In, 2, 3, 4.
“Yes, sir, I will ask him.”
Hold, 2, 3, 4.
“That would be so kind, Gigi. I’m sure Daddy will help you with that.”
Out, 2, 3, 4.
“I’ll be home as soon as I can. I love you so very much, my babies.”
In, 2, 3, 4.
“You’re right. You’re not babies anymore. I love you so very much, my big kids.”
Hold, 2, 3, 4.
“I’ll text you. I love you.” That must be to Garrett.
Out, 2, 3, 4.
As I exhale a final breath, I’m feeling far more in control and far less likely to physically come apart at my seams. But only barely. Hannah’s in her car now, her phone propped up in, I’m assuming, the cup holder, so that I’m looking up at her like Jack probably looked at the giant in “Jack and the Beanstalk.”
“You said this has been happening a lot?” Sabrina asks gently.
I nod.
“Since when?”
“Since Blake was born, I guess. But it’s gotten worse lately,” I say. “Last week, Logan came home to me sobbing on the bedroom floor because none of my clothes fit, and I tried on a piece of lingerie that made me look like a stuffed sausage.”
“We’ve all been there,” Hannah says, and I see Sabrina nod in agreement. “When Spring rolled around the year the twins were born, I couldn’t fit into some of my dresses, so Garrett went out and bought the exact same dresses in a size that would fit.”
I remember that now. I remember Hannah being so self-conscious, even though I can’t remember noticing her clothes being tighter at the time.
“I was so mad at him at first,” she continues. “But he said that clothes didn’t make me beautiful, I made clothes beautiful. And I’m pretty sure he got that from an old episode of What Not To Wear or something, but it genuinely helped. Because it wasn’t actually the clothes or my weight that I was upset about. It was feeling like I didn’t have control over my life anymore.”
Sabrina nods more fervently this time.
“Exactly. After Alex was born, I just felt…off-kilter. We hadn’t been in New York long, and now we had a preschooler and a newborn, and it was a lot. I wasn’t able to get to the gym like I wanted. Tuck and I were eating trash most days because we were just so tired—”
“And New York pizza is so good!” Hannah interjects.
“And that,” Sabrina concedes. “But the point is that being a mom is really fucking hard, Grace. Harder than anyone ever admits. And it’s okay to feel overwhelmed by it all. And to not love every single thing that comes with it.”
I’m crying again, albeit more quietly than before, because this is why we have this chat. For the first time in weeks, I feel seen and understood, and I’m beyond grateful to have Hannah and Sabrina in my life.
“But Logan has been incredible,” I say. “He’s been doing way more than his fair share with Blake and around the house. He’s been nothing but supportive of me, even though I know he doesn’t really get what’s wrong. He—”
“And you think Garrett wasn’t?” Hannah asks. “Or Tucker? Grace, we have some of the best partners the good Lord ever put on this Earth, but that doesn’t undo the way pregnancy scrambles your hormones and your brain chemistry. Trust me, babe, you haven’t done anything wrong. It sucks that you feel like this, but it’s not your fault.”
“Just reaching out and telling us you feel like shit is a huge step,” Sabrina says. “We’ve got your back.”
“Always,” Hannah says.
“I l-love you g-guys,” I manage to stutter out, the words getting caught in my throat as I try, again, to keep from sobbing. “So much.”
“Right back atcha’,” Sabrina smiles.
“Samesies,” Hannah says. “Also, Grace, I’m pulling up to your place now. Come let me in?”
“Of course,” I say, and Hannah hangs up, leaving me on the line with Sabrina. “Thank you for talking me down earlier, S. The breathing exercises, they really helped.”
Sabrina smiles again. “It’s a trick my therapist taught me. It’s gotten me through more than one sleep-deprived 2AM meltdown. Use it any time you need.”
“I will.”
“Give Hannah a hug from me when you see her. And Blake. God, I can’t wait to see those cheeks in person.”
That makes me chuckle.
“Hell, Logan, too. I miss all of you knuckleheads.”
That makes me outright laugh. “It’s been way too long, I agree.” There’s a loud thump thump thump on the front door. “That’s Hannah,” I say. “Gotta go, S. Love you. Give Tuck and the girls all my love.”
“Will do.”
Logan
I know the girls have about 5000 group chats. I don’t know how that’s possible when there’s just the 4 of them, but they have a group chat for everything. Us guys? We’ve had the same group chat since we moved in together. It’s just easier that way. That also means that this group chat houses everything from fantasy league drafts to drunken texts to invitations to kids’ birthday parties to…tonight’s conversation.
To: Best Buds Forever
G: Yo, Logan, what’s the sitch at your place? Hannah just bolted out of here. Everything alrite?
Tuck: Is this about the FaceTime call Sabrina is on right now? Sounds serious. I heard her doing the breathing exercises she does when she’s panicking.
Big Dean: ????????
Logan: Ya, Hannah’s w/Grace now. IFU.
G: As a wise man once told me, better do some serious groveling. Bust out that credit card & get to work.
Logan: Its not xactly a fuckup tht a credit card can fix, G
Big Dean: 1) sounds fake
Big Dean: 2) wtf is going on????
Logan: Stfu Dean. Im getting there
Logan: Grace is sad
Logan: like rlly fucking sad
Logan: & scared
Logan: & has been 4 awhile
Logan: like since B wuz born i guess
Logan: & i just didnt fucking notice
G: What does “rlly fucking sad & scared” mean?
Logan: like i came home after practice last wk & she wuz crying on the floor b/c she h8ed all her clothes
G: Oh
G: That kinda happened to Wellsy, 2. Bought her a shit ton of new dresses.
Big Dean: So a credit card COULD solve this!!!
Tuck: I dunno, Dean. If it’s postpartum, it’s probably more complicated than that. Sabrina had it bad after Alex. Started going to therapy and all that.
Tuck: Grace might want to talk to her doctor.
Logan: wuts “it,” Tuck?
Tuck: For Brina, it was postpartum depression. Doc told us it happens for at least 1 in 10 women. So it’s not uncommon. But it fucked her up pretty bad for a while until she got on meds and started going to therapy. Scared the living shit outta me.
Big Dean: Dude, that’s so fucked. Just because she had a baby?
G: Have u *ever* had a sex ed class? Having a baby fucks u up. Ur body, ur brain. Everything.
Big Dean: Really inspiring way to get me and Allie to have kids, guys.
Tuck: It’s not your body and brain getting fucked, dude. It’s Allie’s. We’ve all seen it happen firsthand.
G: & S did it twice
G: voluntarily
Tuck: Only the 2nd time. First time was an accident, or did you miss all of senior year of college?
Logan: so hdyk? w/S? Tht she wuz feeling fucked up?
Tuck: How did I know? Shit, I *didn’t* know. She’s so fucking good at keeping that kind of shit to herself and being strong for me and Jamie. But it’s kind of what you were saying. She just wasn’t acting herself. But neither was I, because we were both so fucking tired, so I just assumed, y’know, that we needed to adjust to having two kids.
Tuck: And then one day, she sits me down at down at dinner and tells me she’s going to talk to the doctor about getting medication for postpartum depression.
G: That sounds like Sabrina
Tuck: My woman knows what she wants.
Tuck: So you didn’t fuck up, Logan. Chances are, Grace didn’t even know what was happening until it all came to a head.
G: Yeah, man. What have u done since her breakdown last week?
Logan: we 8 ice cream in bed n watched Die Hard n i took all the night shifts w/Blake n i cleaned up dinner n we made out in the kitchen n i ordered in the next nite so she didnt hav 2 cook
Logan: & idk just told that i luv her n shit
Logan: normal shit
G: Dude ur fucking crushing it in the husband dept.
Tuck: G’s right. You’re doing everything you can possibly do. And Grace knows that. Don’t beat yourself up, man. Being a parent’s fucking hard.
Big Dean: You’re a good dad, JLogs. And hubby.
Logan: nvr say hubby again
Big Dean: Fair. It felt weird.
I shake my head at Dean’s last message and close the chat. God help him whenever he and Allie have kids. God help Allie. As if she doesn’t have enough to deal with that dumbass for a husband.
So, armed with the knowledge that I’m not a total fuck-up of a husband and father, I decide that it’s time to head downstairs and check on Grace. I know Hannah’s here, but it’d be pretty shitty of me not to comfort my clearly distraught wife. Even if all I can do is hold her and tell her we’ll figure it out, that’s what I’ll do. I never want her to feel like she’s alone in what she’s going through.
We signed up for this. “For better or for worse” and all that shit.
When I get downstairs, Hannah has one arm around Grace’s shoulders and the other holding Blake. Grace is sitting with her eyes closed and her head on Hannah’s shoulder; her cheeks are puffy and red, and I’m not sure I want to know what she’s been saying to Hannah, because I’m afraid I’d never recover. Fuck, do I wish I could just fix this. Just, I don’t know, punch her hormones or something.
I stroke my hand through Grace’s blonde hair to let her know I’m there, that I’m always going to be there. She jolts a little at the initial contact, and I try not to take it personally. But when she tilts her head up and sees me, she relaxes.
“John, I think I want to see a doctor,” she sniffles. And she breaks my fucking heart the way she sounds. So fragile and vulnerable, like she feels broken or something. But I swallow the lump in my throat for the time being. Grace doesn’t need to see me cry right now.
“Okay, baby. We can do that.”
Grace
Postpartum depression and anxiety.
Dr. Bexhill takes one look at my intake form and diagnoses me on the spot. I don’t know if I’m relieved to have an answer—and a relatively straightforward one, at that—or if I’m mad at myself for being so predictable.
“I’m glad you brought this up, Grace,” Dr. Bexhill says. I like her a lot. She was Hannah’s OB-GYN when the twins were born, and she and Garrett had nothing but wonderful things to say about her. When I got pregnant with Blake, it was an easy decision to see if she could take me on. Thankfully, she could, and she’s been nothing but kind and supportive for the last 10 months. “Postpartum depression can feel scary, but you’re prioritizing your health, and that’s important to do as a parent.”
Logan’s with me today. He wasn’t going to be, originally, because of some summer training he had scheduled, but he was able to move it around. Thank God, because I feel strung out just being here. My hand in his is the only thing keeping me grounded right now.
“Thank you,” I manage, but my throat is dry. “I feel kind of…guilty…about it, sometimes. Like maybe I’m a bad mom because I can’t even bring myself to do daily things, let alone take care of Blake like she deserves.”
Logan squeezes my hand, and, God, do I love this man.
Dr. Bexhill smiles softly. “That’s not an uncommon feeling, I’m afraid. Society puts a lot of pressure on people to be these superhuman, extraordinary parents, but the truth is that birth affects us on a physiological level, and it’s okay to utilize whatever resources you need to get back to a healthy place, mentally and physically. John’s coach wouldn’t expect him to be skating at his usual level just a month after a life-changing injury. He’d be seeing an athletic trainer and a physician and slowly working up to it. Having a baby, while not an injury, is a life-changing event, and the medications I’m going to prescribe for you will help as your hormones readjust to their pre-baby levels.”
And that’s how I end up leaving Dr. Bexhill’s office with an antidepressant and an anti-anxiety prescription. I wish I could say just knowing I had answers made me feel better, but it didn’t. Despite Dr. Bexhill’s encouragement—and Logan’s and Hannah’s and Sabrina’s and Allie’s—I still feel a little bit like a failure. Like, if my body can’t even adjust to motherhood, how is the rest of me supposed to? But when I look at Blake sleeping in her car seat wearing a little purple tulle sundress my mom brought from Paris and a little white bonnet that I insisted on to keep her head from getting sunburned, I know I’ll figure it out.
John and I will.
Together.
Grace
September
“Auntie Gwace!!! Why won’t baby Bakey pway wif meeeee!?!?!?” Gigi Graham whines (shrieks!), her chubby preschooler hand patting (slapping!) my knee. I love my goddaughter as much as I love my own child, but, in this moment, I need her to take a page from her brother’s book and be quiet. I just got Blake settled down after she’d been fussing since the literal minute she woke up this morning.
“Inside voice,” Hannah reminds her, not even looking up from where she’s helping Wyatt paint with watercolors at their kitchen table.
“She’s just a baby, Munchkin,” Logan says. “Babies don’t do much. You didn’t when you were this tiny, either.”
“DID SO!” Gigi yells. “I DO’D SO MUCH!”
And yep, Blake’s awake again. So much for that.
“Nope.” Logan pops the “p,” and I sigh as I start trying—again—to settle a fussy Blake.
“YEP!” Gigi mimics Logan’s “p” sound, and, boy, do I pity the arguments her parents are going to have with her someday.
“John, stop arguing with a child,” I mutter just as Hannah comes over.
To Logan, she says, “Yeah, she’ll win, hands down.” But to her daughter, she’s firm: “Gigi Tuesday, what did Mommy just ask you to do?”
“Inside voice,” Gigi says quietly.
“And is yelling at Uncle Logan using our inside voice?”
“No.”
“Right. So, you have 2 options: you can go outside and play with Daddy and Jamie and Alex and Uncle Tucker where you can use your outside voice, or you can come paint with Boo at the table and use your inside voice.”
Gigi’s chubby face lights up with glee, and she’s squealing, “DADDYYYYYYYYYY!” and bolting toward the backyard before Hannah can utter another word.
Hannah just shakes her head, sighs, and sits down beside me on the couch.
“Gimme that baby,” she says, gesturing to Blake.
I don’t even hesitate, passing Blake over as easily as if Hannah had asked me to pass the salt at dinner. And why wouldn’t I? She’s family. I’d trust her and Garrett with Blake any day, and I know they feel the same about Logan and me with the twins.
“Oooh she still smells like baby,” Hannah smiles.
“Make you want another, Wellsy?” Logan teases.
Hannah laughs. “Oh, absolutely not! I did the two-for-one special, and now we are closed for reproduction. You saw Gigi today, right? And you want me to potentially make another one of her?”
All three of our gazes drift out the window to where Garrett and Tucker are chasing the 3 girls—Jamie, Alex, and Gigi, who has somehow acquired fairy wings since she left the living room—through the yard. Garrett, who seems to be playing the part of monster if the claw hands he’s making are any indication, catches up to Gigi and throws her over his shoulder in a fit of giggles.
“She’s quite the daddy’s girl,” I smile.
“She’s his clone,” Hannah grins back. “We made a mini-Garrett, and I hope God has mercy on our souls.” Her tone is disparaging, but her eyes are shining in a way that tells me having 2 Garrett Grahams in the world is the opposite of a bad thing. “But that’s okay, right, Wy? Because while Daddy and Bug run around and be crazyheads, Mommy and Boo can stay inside and make art!”
“Yep!” Wyatt’s little voice echoes from behind us in the kitchen. A moment later, there’s the scrape of a chair followed by the soft, careful padding of Wyatt’s feet, and then he’s standing in front of me and holding out a damp piece of multi-colored paper. “Fo you, Auntie Gwace,” he says with a toothy grin.
“Awww, Monkey, thank you! That’s so sweet! I love it! Can I give you a hug?” Wyatt nods, and I go in for the hug. This boy and his heart! Hannah and Garrett are doing an incredible job with both him and Gigi, nurturing their very different little personalities while making sure that they both have emotional and social intelligence. I couldn’t be more proud of my godchildren.
(And, yes, we all have different names for each of the kids. Yes, I think it will inevitably lead to mass confusion and at least 4 identity crises. Yes, I’ve already mixed up one of the twins’ nicknames with Jamie’s. Or maybe it was Alex’s. I still don’t really know.)
“Feewihbeuh?” Wyatt’s voice is muffled by my shoulder, and that, coupled with the fact that he’s still learning those pesky consonant clusters means I have no chance of understanding him.
“What was that, Monkey?” I ask, pulling away from our hug.
“Do you feewl bedder?” Wyatt asks again, and even though I understand him this time, I don’t understand him. I shoot Hannah a glance.
“Mommy said you feewl bad,” Wyatt explains. “Jus’ sometimes.”
This seems to click with Hannah because sits up a little straighter beside me. “Last month, when I came over to see you, I told the kids that you weren’t feeling well,” she says. “That’s what he’s referring to, I think.”
Ah. Got it.
“I am, Monkey,” I tell him. His green eyes are so big and earnest. “I got some medicine from the doctor, and it makes Auntie Grace feel soooooooo much better. Thank you for asking.”
For reasons I’ll never be able to understand, Wyatt beams. “I get sick sometimes, too!” he announces. “One time, I frew up! On Mommy and Daddy’s bed!”
On my other side, Logan snorts out a laugh. “Did you, Monkey?” Hannah’s face confirms that he, in fact, did. “Were Mommy and Daddy in bed when that happened?” Hannah’s face, again, indicates that, yes, they were in bed when Wyatt “frew up,” and I think Logan might break a rib from the way he’s stifling his laughter. He’s definitely not going to let Garrett live this one down.
Me, I’m suddenly regretting having a child. It’s one thing to be vomited on by a newborn, but a toddler? A child? Nope, nope, nope.
But Wyatt barrels on. “And fen I went to the doctor, and she gabe me medsin, too! Does your medsin taste like chaiwy, Auntie Gwace?”
I’m laughing again as I corral Wyatt onto my lap and hug him close to me. He goes without a fight, snuggling up against me.
“No, mine sure doesn’t taste like cherry,” I tell him. And, honestly, it would be way cooler if it did.
“You should get chaiwy,” he says matter-of-factly. “If you get sick again.”
I think about brushing him off, patting his little head and saying, “Okay, Monkey.” But, even though the meds Dr. Bexhill gave me are working, it’s very likely that I will “get sick again.” There are days, especially when I haven’t had much sleep or Logan’s been out of town, that I feel the anxiety get bad again. And there are weeks where the house doesn’t get cleaned. And when that happens, I call Sabrina. Or Allie. Or I text Hannah and she comes over with the twins and we sit in the middle of my messy house and watch our babies play. And eventually, those feelings of fear and sadness pass. So instead of pretending like everything’s fine and that Auntie Grace is this impervious being, I tell Wyatt the truth.
“Yeah, I might get sick again. Just like you might throw up again someday. And that’s okay, because you know what helps me feel better?”
“Chaiwy medsin?”
“Besides cherry medicine,”
“A Mommy kiss? Daddy asks Mommy to kiss it bedder.”
Hannah turns 3 shades of pink on one side of me, and Logan is wracked with silent, convulsing laughter on my other. Today is proving to be peak comedy for him, at least.
“Mommy kisses are pretty magical,” I say with all the seriousness I can muster. “But you know what else helps? Wyatt kisses.”
And when my godson smacks a slobbery kiss on my cheek, I think that all the crying on my bedroom floor and doctor’s appointments and even bed vomit might be worth it for moments like this.