the guy across the hall.
The guy who I’ve crushed on for months, and who now, will probably never be mine.
Chapter Seven
Mikah
* * *
I suck at everything parenting and baby related. I’m still in the clothes I threw on Friday night in a hurry. I haven’t had time to take a shower. I’m not sure when the last time I ate was… probably when Byron and Hannah brought food. I’m certain I haven’t brushed my teeth since yesterday.
Angelo hates me. He has to with the way he cries regardless of how I try to take care of him.
Hannah was nice enough to stay Friday night. She slept in my guest room in case I needed her and three times she came in when he was crying. But I was already awake because I seem to wake up every time he makes a noise. And he makes a lot of them.
When she left Saturday, she could not hide the worry on her face. She was worried about leaving me home alone with my son.
And isn’t that a slapshot to the face without a mask on?
Byron called yesterday afternoon on the rare occasion Angelo was sleeping, but I was too tired myself to answer. I laid on the couch, too sore and worn out to move. My muscles ached. I didn’t have the energy to lift my arm to reach my cell phone two small feet away.
Since then, I’ve been on the phone with my agent, the team coach, and a lawyer. Conversations that are hard to have with a baby who cries all day long.
He does like the swing sometimes. It’s a huge contraption. Navy blue seat with yellow ducks on it and sometimes a thing that spins around above his head grabs his attention. He likes his pacifier.
The note Angela wrote is correct. He doesn’t spit up much after he eats, but when he does… well, there is a stain on my living room rug and my home now smells like sour milk.
That could also, maybe be me, because he cries and spits when I hold him, and he cries when I set him down.
I am failing at this.
I am also angry that Paisley hasn’t come and checked on me. Perhaps she has plans. Maybe she works. But she said she’d be here all weekend and I haven’t seen her. Haven’t heard her leave, and I have spent time by my door, bouncing and swaying Angelo like she did so easily but all it does is make him cry harder.
I can’t even calm my baby correctly.
I am currently a sweaty mess, angry with my lawyer who says I’ll need a paternity test to determine he’s mine before anything else can happen… like getting me on his birth certificate and tracking down Angela to hurt her for doing this to me.
I am an ass for thinking such things but some warning… some help… that would have been nice.
Angelo is in his swing, unhappy at the world, perhaps screaming because he can’t stand the sight of me, and I’m trying… and failing… at getting some carrier contraption onto me. The straps keep twisting and my arms do not bend behind my back enough to fix them. Hannah said her kids loved being carried in this thing Byron bought me. I remember him carrying his babies like this when they were littler, so I figure I’ll give it a shot.
For as much as the instructions that came with this thing make sense to me, they might be written in Swahili… not one of the three languages I know.
I need help.
I need to go to the team’s doctor and have my head examined. How big of a fool am I for thinking I might be able to do this? And this is all I’ve been thinking of this weekend. Can I do this with Angelo? Alone?
His mother couldn’t.
What makes me think I can? Especially once the season begins.
Hannah has already called me with the name of a babysitting service she hired when her babies were little before she stayed home full time. She said they’re highly reputable. Some nannies live-in, some don’t. Some have flexible schedules and can stay while I travel.
I have no idea what it comes to needing to do what’s best for Angelo. The only needs I have in front of me are getting him to stop crying, take a shower, and figure out this damn carrier.
I fling it off my shoulders and slam my hands to my hips. In his swing,