Infinity(91)

I let her head fall against my shoulder while I pull the covers just over the top of us, giving me some warmth, when I hear the door handle jingle. Charlie’s mom sixth-sense kicks in, and she rouses for just a second.

“I’ve got this,” I reassure her as she falls toward her pillow, snuggling into a much more comfortable position that is, unfortunately, not on me.

I jump out of bed and throw on my athletic shorts and turn the lock. When I open the door, a set of lavender eyes are looking up at me that melt my heart. “Hi,” I coo. “Is everything alright?”

Jax or maybe Liam—I can’t tell them apart—is standing there in Batman PJs with tussled white-blonde hair and a sleepy look on his face. “Liam kicked me.” So this is Jax. “It made me want Mommy.”

Perfectly logical. When I get kicked, I want Charlie also. “Come on, buddy. Let me take you back to bed.”

I pick up half of the fearsome twosome and carry him through the large expanse of our open living room and up the wooden stairs. I’ve been telling Charlie for a couple of weeks that it’s time to put the boys in separate beds—they’re five after all—but she gets a pained look on her face and stares at the ceiling.

I get it. The fearsome twosome have been together forever. But our identical twin boys are outgrowing their bed. I pick up Jax and place him inside of the bed with rails to prevent them from rolling off and breaking something. “I love you, little man. Go to sleep for me.”

“Daddy, am I going to be a football player like you?” my precious son asks me.

I smile and reply, “No, baby boy. You’re going to be a train engineer.”

His face lights up. “I’ll be a super train engineer.”

I look at him like the lovesick fool that I am, and kiss his hair. “Yes, you will, Jax. Yes you will.”

Instead of going back downstairs and getting into bed with my sated wife, I stop off at Ainsley’s room. It’s decorated like a princess lives here. Oh wait! She does. I tiptoe to her bedside and kiss her beautiful forehead while I pull her white blanket over her shoulders. She’s as gorgeous as her mother, but with my build. This six-year-old, reading, writing, mathematician owns me like I didn’t know that I could be owned. All Daddy’s need their boys, but dear God, who knew that I needed my daughter so much. She makes me a better man every damn day of my life.

She rolls over and snuggles some pathetic stuffed animal that she’s claimed as her everything. I smile down at her, hoping that this ratty dog will chase away whatever bad dreams plagued her earlier. I give her another kiss on her forehead and whisper, “Sweet dreams, beautiful,” against her hair.

Pancho, always on guard duty, escorts me down the stairs and back to the bedroom where my girl is taking up the whole bed. I sit down on my side and attempt to reposition her so I’ve got a little more room. No luck. She rolls onto her stomach, and throws her leg over my hips. I glance over at the three-fourths unused large bed so grateful that after as many years that we’ve been together, plus all the fights, traveling, three kids, and life-changing events, she still clings to me in her sleep. Who cares if I sleep well? It’s not like I have practice tomorrow.



****



Sunlight wakes us every morning. We don’t have curtains or blinds, because we live in the middle of nowhere. There’s no need to protect our privacy. It’s really the best way to wake up. We positioned the house so our bedroom faces north. That way we catch a few more minutes of sleep. As I emerge to wakefulness, I realize that my sleeping partner is gone, and must have been up for some time because the bed is cold.

The telltale signs of morning cartoons and smell of bacon frying in a pan makes my stomach growl. Sounds like the twins won the morning TV battle and chose Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. We only have one television in our house on purpose. We could eliminate some of the arguments if I’d agree to put one in the kids’ playroom, but it’s not going to happen. Learning to share is a life skill. It starts with compromising on what shows we watch.

I lean back against the headboard and look down, realizing that I’m still in my athletic shorts with giant morning wood. My options include lying back down and thinking about my fifth-grade English teacher that had a mole on her chin with a black hair growing out of it, or I could take a shower and rub one out using Charlie’s conditioner. Or I could try to persuade my wife to give me a quick pity-fuck in the closet.

I go with the third option. “Charrrrleeee…” I call. “I’ve got a BIG problem”—And I do emphasize the word big— “in here.”