Page 13 of Mr. Cream
Ambrosia
Seven Months Later
My hand rubs my swollen tummy gently. “Don’t worry, little one, Daddy will be home soon, and he’ll have what we want.”
I pace the living room, waiting for the tell-tale signs that Devon is home. When I hear the sound of the garage door open, I hurry to the mudroom on the ground floor of our tri-level home. As soon as the door opens an inch, I’m on him.
“Did you bring them,” I ask him, looking for a bag filled with my new favorite treat. “We’re all out and the baby is seriously craving them.”
Devon’s lips tip up into a smile. “The baby or its momma?” He holds up a paper bag and I snatch it greedily from him.
“Both of us,” I say as I reach into the bag and pull out a chocolate covered Dream Cream. I tear the cellophane wrapper and practically shove the whole thing in my mouth. It’s not pretty and I’m not proud but I can’t help it.
“Did you even chew that?” Devon teases me as he places a smacking kiss on my cheek.
I reach into the bag for a second and unwrap it slowly. “You know, the first time I ever had a Dream Cream was six months ago.”
“Really?” Devon’s face scrunches up with disbelief.
“True story. My parents could never afford them.”
“And now you’re going to marry the Dream Cream king.”
I roll my eyes. “Please don’t call yourself that again.” The baby moves and I stop. I reach for Devon’s hand and place it on my tummy. “The baby is happy now.”
I love the way his face lights up whenever he feels our child moving. He’s like a kid on Christmas morning who’s just discovered Santa left them the biggest present ever. He rubs small circles over my belly and then kisses it.
“Thank you, Ambrosia,” he says, cradling my belly in his hands. “Thank you for giving me a child.”
Devon helps me upstairs and makes a point to scold me for walking all the way down to the ground level because I’m supposed to be “taking it easy.”
“You don’t know what it’s like to have ridiculous cravings,” I pout as he makes me sit down on our over-stuffed sectional couch.
One dark eyebrow pops up. “So, the thing that makes us millions of dollars is ridiculous?”
I suck in a sharp breath as pain slices through my abdomen. I pant through the pain until it disappears and when I look up, Devon is staring at me with eyes full of worry.
“Another one,” he asks.
I nod. “Yes.” For the last few weeks, I’ve been having Braxton-Hicks contractions. The first time, we both panicked and rushed to the hospital only to be sent home with the reassurance that the false labor pains are merely our baby getting ready for its arrival.
Devon opens his arms to me and I lean in, letting him envelope me in his warmth and comfort. The familiar smell of him, clean and masculine, relaxes me.
“Ah!” I cry out a few moments later when another contraction hits me. I sit up, clutch my belly and breathe through the pain. Maybe these aren’t Braxton-Hicks contractions after all. Devon’s hum seems to agree with me and our suspicions are confirmed when I feel a pop followed by a trickle of liquid.
“Devon,” I say cautiously.
“Is it time?”
I nod my head and we spring into action. After our scare a few weeks ago, we became experts in preparation. My bag and the baby’s bag have been packed and waiting in the mudroom.
Devon is diligent in calling the hospital and our doctor while I stop and do my best to remember to breathe through the pain. When it becomes unbearable, he’s there next to me, holding my hand, rubbing my back.
“Ambrosia,” he whispers and I look up at those golden brown eyes. He’s smiling and crying. “Let’s go have a baby.”
* * *
Twenty-four hours later, our little girl arrives. I’m more than exhausted but looking down at our daughter, Madeline, cradled in my arms and fast asleep, I don’t want to miss a single second of her life. She’s beyond perfect. Her hair is dark and wavy like Devon’s, but her eyes are bright blue, like mine. She’s the best of us.
