Page 252 of Wild Then Wed
And I don’t take a second of it for granted—because I don’t know if we’ll ever get to do it again. I don’t know if Ruthie will be our only baby or our first, but either way, I know I’ll ache when she doesn’t fit against my chest like this anymore.
People don’t warn you about that part of parenting. About how much of it is just learning to say goodbye.
Goodbye to newborn stretches. To milk-drunk smiles. To the tiny, sleepy sighs against your collarbone. You’re constantly ushering in the next phase while quietly mourning the one you’re leaving behind.
And still—there’s joy in all of it.
She’s two months old now. She coos when I sing to her in the mornings. Grips my pinky like it’s the most important thing in the world. Her legs are starting to kick when she’s excited, and she has this little smirk when she’s tired that nearly guts me.
Most mornings I read to her—Goodnight Moon, Corduroy, The Runaway Bunny, The Hungry Hungry Caterpillar—the books that sit in a soft, well-loved stack on the nightstand. She doesn’t care what I’m saying, not yet. But she still watches my mouth, all wide eyes and wonder.
Wren’s the one who always remembers the small things, like the lotion. The soft lavender stuff we rub into Ruthie’s arms and legs after her bath. She hums while she does it, even if she’s exhausted. I don’t think she knows she does it.
That’s what it’s been like, watching her be a mom.
She doesn’t rush anything. She moves slow and soft, even when Ruthie’s screaming. She talks to her like she’s a person, not a baby—she tells her what they’re doing that day, what she’s wearing, how proud she is of her for burping like a champion. I catch her sometimes just sitting there watching her sleep, her hand resting gently on Ruthie’s stomach like she’s still not sure it’s real.
And honestly? I get it.
What we have together—it works. We trade off when we can. Give each other breaks. Wren always lets me take over the early mornings on my days off, which is what today is. My favorite kind of day, because I get them both to myself.
Ruthie’s breathing is slower now, her fingers twitching slightly against my chest like she’s dreaming of something small and good.
And this—this right here—it’s everything.
I walk another slow loop around the nursery, the floorboards creaking softly beneath my feet, the window starting to glow with the first light of morning.
My whole life used to fit into what I’d lost. Now, it fits into what I hold.
Ruthie starts snoring—the soft kind she does when she’s down for good.
I hold my breath and try it. Gently, carefully, I lower her into the crib, my hands still cupped beneath her until I’m sure she’s settled. She stirs for half a second, then goes still again, her lips parted, arms flung up like she’s sunbathing.
I turn up the white noise machine—the ocean waves setting—and back out of the room, step by step, inch by inch, until I’m on the other side of the door.
That white noise machine that Crew gave us has been our fucking life saver. I’d marry it if I wasn’t already taken.
I tiptoe back into our room and crawl into bed. The monitor is already glowing on Wren’s side of the nightstand, flickering with grainy footage of Ruthie’s tiny body, curled up on her side.
Wren shifts, her eyes still closed, and slides her arm around my waist, her leg hooking over mine. “How’d she go down?” she mumbles, her voice low and scratchy with sleep.
I brush her hair back off her face. “You’re supposed to be asleep.”
“I couldn’t.”
I lean in and kiss her, soft at first. “She went down okay,” I whisper against her mouth.
She kisses me back, longer this time, slower. Her fingers slide into my hair and tug gently, just enough to pull me closer.
She exhales into me, and it’s not quite a moan, but it sends a full-body shiver straight through me. I deepen the kiss, my hand drifting beneath the hem of her T-shirt, fingertips brushing warm skin.
Then I realize what I’mnotfeeling.
No underwear. Nothing between us. Just her.
A low sound rumbles out of me before I can stop it. Her hand tightens in my hair, her mouth parting beneath mine like she’s already letting me in.
I press my forehead to hers, breathing her in, letting it ground me. This moment. This woman. She always finds a way to feel like home.
