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The sound of the baby monitor crackling to life woke Ilya first, the soft cries of his son beginning to fill the room. Ilya is the first to move, Shane following a few seconds behind, before Ilya places a hand on his knee, a quiet way to say, go back to sleep. Shane gets the message, turning around and promptly falling back to sleep.
Ilya quietly pads down the hallway, the soft light coming from the nursery illuminating the way. He turns the corner to find Makari sitting up in his crib, one hand pulling on his ear, the other in his mouth, somewhat muffling his pitiful sobs. The sight breaks Ilya’s heart.
“My poor baby,” Ilya announces his presence, Mak’s head snapping to him and immediately reaching his arms up. Ilya picks up his pace and pulls his son out of the crib, cradling the crying baby to his chest.
Ilya was worried that he would be annoyed if his baby was fussy, the fear of turning into his father looming over him the final weeks leading up to Mak’s arrival. Now that he’s in it, though, annoyance doesn’t even cross his mind, his heart just aches. Aches for this baby—his baby—that is in pain, his teeth making their painful and unwelcomed arrival.
Teething had come with a vengeance. Since birth, Mak had been happy, easy-going, not fussy at all. Now, he can hardly rest, and therefore, neither can his parents.
Ilya bounces Mak in his arms, feeling the mix of drool and tears on his bare chest. Ilya pats Makari’s back, shushing him in a way he knows will calm his son. Soon, the sobbing peters to quiet sniffles, Mak pulling his head back to look at his papa.
As soon as they make eye contact, a gummy smile takes up Makari’s face, forcing a chuckle out of Ilya.
“You just wanted to hang out with Papa, huh?” Ilya grins. He takes stock of Mak: a red face, drool covered chin, wet cheeks, a snotty nose, eyelashes wet and clumped together. “Let’s clean you up, sunshine.”
Ilya finds Mak’s discarded pacifier in his crib and offers it to him, Mak gladly accepting, then grabs a washcloth and makes his way to the kitchen. He wets the rag with warm water and begins to wipe Mak’s face. While Ilya tries to clean him as best as he can, Makari thinks it is the funniest thing, laughing as the cool rag makes its way across his nose.
Satisfied with his work, Ilya moves from the sink, grabbing a teether from the freezer and making his way back to the nursery. He takes the pacifier from Mak and hands him the teether; he immediately grabs it and shoves it into his mouth.
“Does that feel better?” Ilya asks, watching how Mak attacks the plastic ring with his sore gums. Makari gurgles around the teether in response.
Throwing the washcloth into the hamper, Ilya makes his way to the rocker in the nursery, adjusting Mak so he can use the teether to soothe himself.
The house finally goes quiet, the small creak of the rocking chair filling the nursery. Mak’s eyes start to droop, but stubbornly go back to chewing on his teether. Ilya just stares at him; he can never seem to stop.
Before Makari, Ilya didn’t understand how parents lost track of time looking at their children, but now, he thinks he could spend a whole day staring at his son. He could spend days watching little hands and fingers learn to pinch and point. He didn’t understand the appeal of chubby cheeks, but his son’s were designed to be kissed.
He runs his finger along Mak’s cheek, Mak sighing around the teether. Ilya chuckles to himself. An image of his mother rubbing her finger along his own cheek flashes in his mind, pausing his motions. He can still smell her favorite hand lotion.
“You know,” Ilya clears his throat and resumes running his finger along Mak’s cheek, “your Babushka used to do this, too.” Mak makes a noise around the frozen teether in response.
“No, not what you are doing,” Ilya grins, “what I am doing.”
“I remember when I was sad, she would do this,” he continues, “I thought it was annoying sometimes, but it made me smile.”
“Your hair is the same as your Babushka’s was, just longer,” Ilya runs his hands through his son’s soft hair.
It occurs to Ilya then. Makari knows his obachan and grandpa, squeals in delight at the sight of them. Mak knows their voice, and as he gets older he will know their stories. But Mak will never know his Babushka like that. Makari will know how she looks in the few pictures Ilya preserved, but won’t get to see the way she held herself. He will never hear her voice, he will only hear Ilya describe it.
The only way he will know her is through Ilya.
“She was so beautiful, the most beautiful woman I have ever met,” Ilya says, “and when she laughed, everyone else did, too.” As if understanding his words, Mak lets out a laugh of his own. Ilya takes it as a sign to keep going, “you laugh just like her.”
“Your Babushka loved movies, especially bad ones,” he laughs, remembering the way she would pick cheesy romance movies during their movie nights. “I think maybe she picked those ones because they made us laugh.”
Mak’s eyes begin to droop more, but Ilya continues.
“She made the best shchi, I’m sorry you will never taste it,” Ilya pauses, “or really any homemade Russian foods as good as hers.”
A small whine snaps Ilya from going down that path. That story can wait. He adjusted Mak so he was against his chest, his face in Ilya’s neck and Ilya’s hand rubbing soothing circles over his back.
“She didn’t know anything about hockey,” Ilya laughs under his breath, “but she would come to every game she could. I always played better when she was there.”
“After every game, she would tell me I was the best on the team, that she couldn’t take her eyes off of me.”
“Babushka was radiant when she was happy,” he feels the little body relax against him.
“Just like you.”
The teether makes a soft thud on the carpet as Makari gives into sleep. Ilya continues rocking him, feeling the tiny puffs of air on his neck with every breath. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Shane, smiling at him from the doorway.
“Did I wake you?”
“No,” Shane says immediately, then reconsiders, “okay, yes, but it’s okay.” Shane smiles at him, “what were you talking about?”
For a minute, Ilya doesn’t say anything. Shane waits, placing a hand on Ilya’s knee.
Ilya takes a deep breath and looks at his husband.
“She would have loved him.”
Shane wipes a tear from Ilya’s face.
“I know she would.”