and stretch marks.
He drops
down on his knees and runs his hands along my legs, up, up, up until he reaches
the apex of my thighs. His fingers run along my swollen lips, teasing me. My
head drops back, and a loud moan escapes. His touch doesn't linger long, and
before I know it, he’s done. He leans forward, pressing his lips against the
baby.
“You be
good to your momma today. Daddy will be watching,” he says before kissing every
inch of my stomach.
God, I
just want to melt on the spot. I love hearing him talk to the baby. Hearing him
say the word Daddy turns me into a
puddle of liquid. I want to hear it over and over and over. I can’t believe how
lucky I am. Of course, our relationship isn't perfect by any means, but I'm
happy, happier than I have ever been in my life.
Only one
thing could make it better, but I’m not pushing. If he decides he wants to be
with me long-term, then he will tell me. I know his wanting to be a father to
my baby has more to do with the fact that he’s his brother’s child. I’m not
stupid. I know if it had been a stranger’s baby, then Kiptyn would have been
out the door in a heartbeat. It doesn’t upset me. I’m happy, content knowing
that my child won’t grow up without a father the way I did.
I
confess, most nights I lie in bed wondering if he will still want me once I
have the baby, if he is only staying with me to be certain I'm well taken care
of and that the baby has all he needs. I practically moved in here the week
after I found out. At nine o'clock that morning, I called the doctor’s office
and made an appointment.
They
couldn’t get me in for two weeks since I’m a new patient, and the anxiety over
that fourteen days has quadrupled. I’ve bought a dozen more pregnancy tests and
taken one almost every day since Kip first told me. I keep worrying that I’ll
wake up and it will all have been a dream.
Part of
me is worried they’ve made a mistake. I just know I’ll walk in the door and
they’ll shamefully let me know that there was an error in the bloodwork.
“You're not pregnant, Miss Parker.” I dread hearing those words. All my life, I
had been told I couldn’t conceive, that there was no way my uterus would carry
a child after the accident. I can’t tell you how many different opinions I had
gotten, praying someone would give me a small ray of hope.
Kip
refuses to let me go alone. I think he senses that I need someone there with
me, someone to hold my hand and just be there for me. When the doctor walks in,
the first thing he does is congratulate me. I burst in tears again. Kiptyn
holds me close and explains as best as he can why I'm reacting the way I am. I
let him take over, keeping my head buried in his chest, not peeking out until
the doctor asks if I’d like to try and see the baby.
He
explains that the ultrasound might not be able to pick up a clear image yet
since we aren’t sure how far along I am, but I barely hear him. I'm going to
get to see my baby and get the proof that I need, that this is real and not
some sick joke.
I lie on
the hard, bench-like table and lower my pants so the doctor can squirt some gel
on my belly without getting it on my pants. The gel is cold, and I flinch.
“What’s
wrong? Is it hurting?” Kiptyn asked, and I feel more than see his willingness
to protect me from whatever unseen anomaly is hurting me.
“No,
it’s just cold,” I say, reaching for his hand.
“It's ok,
Dad. I promise that nothing about this procedure will hurt her.” Kiptyn tenses,
and I worry that the doctor said something wrong, but when I angle my head back
and look at him, he’s grinning from ear to ear.
The
moment he touches the probe against my stomach, my breath locks in my throat. I
hold it there, captive, until the loud thrum of a heartbeat fills the room.
“Well, I think it’s safe to say you're a bit further along that you thought,”
the doctor says, and tears leak from the corner of my eyes. I can’t believe it.
I’m
He drops
down on his knees and runs his hands along my legs, up, up, up until he reaches
the apex of my thighs. His fingers run along my swollen lips, teasing me. My
head drops back, and a loud moan escapes. His touch doesn't linger long, and
before I know it, he’s done. He leans forward, pressing his lips against the
baby.
“You be
good to your momma today. Daddy will be watching,” he says before kissing every
inch of my stomach.
God, I
just want to melt on the spot. I love hearing him talk to the baby. Hearing him
say the word Daddy turns me into a
puddle of liquid. I want to hear it over and over and over. I can’t believe how
lucky I am. Of course, our relationship isn't perfect by any means, but I'm
happy, happier than I have ever been in my life.
Only one
thing could make it better, but I’m not pushing. If he decides he wants to be
with me long-term, then he will tell me. I know his wanting to be a father to
my baby has more to do with the fact that he’s his brother’s child. I’m not
stupid. I know if it had been a stranger’s baby, then Kiptyn would have been
out the door in a heartbeat. It doesn’t upset me. I’m happy, content knowing
that my child won’t grow up without a father the way I did.
I
confess, most nights I lie in bed wondering if he will still want me once I
have the baby, if he is only staying with me to be certain I'm well taken care
of and that the baby has all he needs. I practically moved in here the week
after I found out. At nine o'clock that morning, I called the doctor’s office
and made an appointment.
They
couldn’t get me in for two weeks since I’m a new patient, and the anxiety over
that fourteen days has quadrupled. I’ve bought a dozen more pregnancy tests and
taken one almost every day since Kip first told me. I keep worrying that I’ll
wake up and it will all have been a dream.
Part of
me is worried they’ve made a mistake. I just know I’ll walk in the door and
they’ll shamefully let me know that there was an error in the bloodwork.
“You're not pregnant, Miss Parker.” I dread hearing those words. All my life, I
had been told I couldn’t conceive, that there was no way my uterus would carry
a child after the accident. I can’t tell you how many different opinions I had
gotten, praying someone would give me a small ray of hope.
Kip
refuses to let me go alone. I think he senses that I need someone there with
me, someone to hold my hand and just be there for me. When the doctor walks in,
the first thing he does is congratulate me. I burst in tears again. Kiptyn
holds me close and explains as best as he can why I'm reacting the way I am. I
let him take over, keeping my head buried in his chest, not peeking out until
the doctor asks if I’d like to try and see the baby.
He
explains that the ultrasound might not be able to pick up a clear image yet
since we aren’t sure how far along I am, but I barely hear him. I'm going to
get to see my baby and get the proof that I need, that this is real and not
some sick joke.
I lie on
the hard, bench-like table and lower my pants so the doctor can squirt some gel
on my belly without getting it on my pants. The gel is cold, and I flinch.
“What’s
wrong? Is it hurting?” Kiptyn asked, and I feel more than see his willingness
to protect me from whatever unseen anomaly is hurting me.
“No,
it’s just cold,” I say, reaching for his hand.
“It's ok,
Dad. I promise that nothing about this procedure will hurt her.” Kiptyn tenses,
and I worry that the doctor said something wrong, but when I angle my head back
and look at him, he’s grinning from ear to ear.
The
moment he touches the probe against my stomach, my breath locks in my throat. I
hold it there, captive, until the loud thrum of a heartbeat fills the room.
“Well, I think it’s safe to say you're a bit further along that you thought,”
the doctor says, and tears leak from the corner of my eyes. I can’t believe it.
I’m
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