Written at Starbucks
Basically a fic-ization of a conversation Lora and I had on the Adelaide bus route on...Sunday, I think it was?
Michael leaned on the counter at a safe distance and watched. He couldn't control his eyebrows or the cant of his mouth. His arms were tightly folded. If Paul caught sight of his expression...but he wasn't worried. Paul sat at the kitchen table, wrapped in his ducky-yellow bathrobe (present from Jo). He had his chin balanced daintily on his fists and a fatuous expression on his face. The baby had only been fully theirs for a few months. He was seated at the high-chair on a sunny morning and he had made the biggest mess Michael had ever seen. The spaghetti was cut into tiny strips and had a bit of butter mixed in with it. It stuck to things. The Winnie-the-Pooh breakfast bowl was half-full of the stuff. Arabesques of it scattered in loops and whorls on the high-chair's little table, and a fair bit of the rest was stuck to the baby's round pink face. As Michael watched a smidge of pasta slid gently down the crest of Robbie's chin and dropped onto the bib Tina had embroidered for him. Michael's stomach did a little clench-and-lurch.
"Isn't he gorgeous?" Paul said. Robbie signed "Me?" and Paul obligingly scooped a bit of pasta onto a plastic spoon and offered it to Robbie, who gave Paul a scrunch-faced grin and leaned after it. This was his third-ever meal of solid food and his first experience with something that wasn't mush.
Michael fingered the folded kleenex he held. If it were his own mouth in need of wiping a bit of kitchen towel would do, but he didn't think that was soft enough for the baby. Paul just used the back of his hand, a bit of kitchen towel, whatever he had. He'd rebuffed Michael's offer to wipe the baby's mouth, saying, "Why? He'll just get all ucky again-- he hasn't even got a full set of teeth yet, how's he supposed to eat all tidy?"
Gone was the flush of pride at Robbie's being ahead of the schedual the pediatrician had given them; Robbie could bottle-feed 'till he was three, if it would prevent scenes like this! Michael didn't know how Robbie could stand the butter-slick on his face, the clammy noodle-bits sticking to his cheeks and neck. A few moments later Michael grimaced as the baby swiped a hand at his fluff of hair, leaving a gloss of butter and a chunk of pasta behind. Surely Michael had never covered himself in food like that!
The kitchen clock chimed the half-hour, and Paul's head snapped around. "Waugh! I'm supposed to leave at--- ahh, I've still got to shower!" He shoved the chair back and stood, smoothing the back of his bathrobe as if it were a light summer skirt. He slid around behind the table and paused to kiss the crown of Robbie's head. He took two steps, then pivoted to kiss Robbie again. "Michael, make sure Robbie eats enough okay?"
"Sure," Michael said, but Paul had already vanished around the corner, twining his hair up so it wouldn't get wet. Robbie beamed at Michael and patted both hands on the pasta-strewn high-chair table, then signed, "Me, more?"
Michael couldn't help an amiable nose-wrinkle. He sat on the chair Paul had just vacated. "Sure thing, squirt." Squirt was one of Pete's names for Robbie, and the only one Michael had picked up. He snagged the spoon and scooped some pasta in Robbie's general direction, trying to ignore the slick baby fingers that grabbed his wrist to direct the spoon. Auuugh. When Robbie'd managed to cram his mouth with pasta, Michael set the spoon down and set to work with the kleenex. He wiped the butter from the baby's face and neck, brushing pasta bits off. Baby first, he'd deal with the floor once Robbie'd had his fill. He folded the kleenex and made a go at wiping the butter from Robbie's hair. Robbie leaned his head into the touch. Michael put the kleenex down and cupped the back of Robbie's head, rubbing the baby's cheek with his thumb. You're a messy boy aren't you, he thought, and instead told the baby he loved him and reached for the spoon again.
The rest of the meal was rhythmic; feed the baby a spoonful of pasta, wipe up while he chewed, reach for the spoon again. The pile of kleenex on the counter grew. Robbie kicked his feet sometimes, clad in pale flannel, and drew swirling designs in the high-chair-table's coating of pasta. Michael tried not to let it turn his stomach so much.
Robbie finished the last bite of pasta and began picking shreds of pasta off of the table. Michael caught Robbie's wrist before he could stuff the scavenged spaghetti into his mouth-- "No no, Robbie, it's dirty now. There's more in the pot if you'd like."
Robbie's face scrunched, halfway between confusion and the beginnings of distress. He touched the fingers of his right hand to his mouth, then moved his hand towards the table until his little palm faced down. Michael immediately stood and scooped him up. "No Robbie, you're not bad-- you're wonderful. You're just a little messy. I love you very much." Michael took a step towards the sink then paused. His hands were full of Robbie, he was holding the baby with his hands curved around his ribcage, which made Robbie's arms cant outwards. Robbie watched his face closely, his body tense, his mouth an uncertain line, his forehead was crinkled. There were still traces of butter on his skin.
Michael envied Paul's casual confidence in all things Robbie. Paul never looked uncomfortable when Robbie was doing something odd like chewing on his toes; he never seemed frightened the way Michael felt so often. Robbie was tiny, he couldn't go more than one step without falling backwards onto his diaper-padded rear, he understood just enough of what everyone said to misunderstand sometimes. Michael privately felt that he was having more trouble than Paul was to adjusting to their deaf son and his needs. Michael was less exuberant than Paul when it came to spontaneous gestures, so why was he having so much more trouble suppressing them? He couldn't even remember to watch what he said, and now the baby needed a cuddle to reassure him and Michael was going to get butter all over his neck. Which would wash off. Robbie's upset wouldn't.
"C'mere," Michael murmured, and hefted Robbie so that the baby lay against his chest, Michael's arm under his bum, the other hand splayed against Robbie's back. He pressed a string of kisses to Robbie's hairline until the baby relaxed and tucked his face into Michael's neck. Michael smelled butter and pasta and the delicate shampoo Paul used on Robbie's hair, the last of the breakfast coffee, the summer smell of sunshine on grass that came through the open windows. Michael moved his hand in slow passes over Robbie's back. Robbie'd caught hold of the curls at the nape of Michael's neck, as he usually did, petting Michael's hair in response to having his back rubbed. He kept waiting for the baby to grow bored and wriggle, but they were still standing there when Paul sailed in. Michael thought that he'd figure this 'father' thing out someday. Maybe soon.
Michael leaned on the counter at a safe distance and watched. He couldn't control his eyebrows or the cant of his mouth. His arms were tightly folded. If Paul caught sight of his expression...but he wasn't worried. Paul sat at the kitchen table, wrapped in his ducky-yellow bathrobe (present from Jo). He had his chin balanced daintily on his fists and a fatuous expression on his face. The baby had only been fully theirs for a few months. He was seated at the high-chair on a sunny morning and he had made the biggest mess Michael had ever seen. The spaghetti was cut into tiny strips and had a bit of butter mixed in with it. It stuck to things. The Winnie-the-Pooh breakfast bowl was half-full of the stuff. Arabesques of it scattered in loops and whorls on the high-chair's little table, and a fair bit of the rest was stuck to the baby's round pink face. As Michael watched a smidge of pasta slid gently down the crest of Robbie's chin and dropped onto the bib Tina had embroidered for him. Michael's stomach did a little clench-and-lurch.
"Isn't he gorgeous?" Paul said. Robbie signed "Me?" and Paul obligingly scooped a bit of pasta onto a plastic spoon and offered it to Robbie, who gave Paul a scrunch-faced grin and leaned after it. This was his third-ever meal of solid food and his first experience with something that wasn't mush.
Michael fingered the folded kleenex he held. If it were his own mouth in need of wiping a bit of kitchen towel would do, but he didn't think that was soft enough for the baby. Paul just used the back of his hand, a bit of kitchen towel, whatever he had. He'd rebuffed Michael's offer to wipe the baby's mouth, saying, "Why? He'll just get all ucky again-- he hasn't even got a full set of teeth yet, how's he supposed to eat all tidy?"
Gone was the flush of pride at Robbie's being ahead of the schedual the pediatrician had given them; Robbie could bottle-feed 'till he was three, if it would prevent scenes like this! Michael didn't know how Robbie could stand the butter-slick on his face, the clammy noodle-bits sticking to his cheeks and neck. A few moments later Michael grimaced as the baby swiped a hand at his fluff of hair, leaving a gloss of butter and a chunk of pasta behind. Surely Michael had never covered himself in food like that!
The kitchen clock chimed the half-hour, and Paul's head snapped around. "Waugh! I'm supposed to leave at--- ahh, I've still got to shower!" He shoved the chair back and stood, smoothing the back of his bathrobe as if it were a light summer skirt. He slid around behind the table and paused to kiss the crown of Robbie's head. He took two steps, then pivoted to kiss Robbie again. "Michael, make sure Robbie eats enough okay?"
"Sure," Michael said, but Paul had already vanished around the corner, twining his hair up so it wouldn't get wet. Robbie beamed at Michael and patted both hands on the pasta-strewn high-chair table, then signed, "Me, more?"
Michael couldn't help an amiable nose-wrinkle. He sat on the chair Paul had just vacated. "Sure thing, squirt." Squirt was one of Pete's names for Robbie, and the only one Michael had picked up. He snagged the spoon and scooped some pasta in Robbie's general direction, trying to ignore the slick baby fingers that grabbed his wrist to direct the spoon. Auuugh. When Robbie'd managed to cram his mouth with pasta, Michael set the spoon down and set to work with the kleenex. He wiped the butter from the baby's face and neck, brushing pasta bits off. Baby first, he'd deal with the floor once Robbie'd had his fill. He folded the kleenex and made a go at wiping the butter from Robbie's hair. Robbie leaned his head into the touch. Michael put the kleenex down and cupped the back of Robbie's head, rubbing the baby's cheek with his thumb. You're a messy boy aren't you, he thought, and instead told the baby he loved him and reached for the spoon again.
The rest of the meal was rhythmic; feed the baby a spoonful of pasta, wipe up while he chewed, reach for the spoon again. The pile of kleenex on the counter grew. Robbie kicked his feet sometimes, clad in pale flannel, and drew swirling designs in the high-chair-table's coating of pasta. Michael tried not to let it turn his stomach so much.
Robbie finished the last bite of pasta and began picking shreds of pasta off of the table. Michael caught Robbie's wrist before he could stuff the scavenged spaghetti into his mouth-- "No no, Robbie, it's dirty now. There's more in the pot if you'd like."
Robbie's face scrunched, halfway between confusion and the beginnings of distress. He touched the fingers of his right hand to his mouth, then moved his hand towards the table until his little palm faced down. Michael immediately stood and scooped him up. "No Robbie, you're not bad-- you're wonderful. You're just a little messy. I love you very much." Michael took a step towards the sink then paused. His hands were full of Robbie, he was holding the baby with his hands curved around his ribcage, which made Robbie's arms cant outwards. Robbie watched his face closely, his body tense, his mouth an uncertain line, his forehead was crinkled. There were still traces of butter on his skin.
Michael envied Paul's casual confidence in all things Robbie. Paul never looked uncomfortable when Robbie was doing something odd like chewing on his toes; he never seemed frightened the way Michael felt so often. Robbie was tiny, he couldn't go more than one step without falling backwards onto his diaper-padded rear, he understood just enough of what everyone said to misunderstand sometimes. Michael privately felt that he was having more trouble than Paul was to adjusting to their deaf son and his needs. Michael was less exuberant than Paul when it came to spontaneous gestures, so why was he having so much more trouble suppressing them? He couldn't even remember to watch what he said, and now the baby needed a cuddle to reassure him and Michael was going to get butter all over his neck. Which would wash off. Robbie's upset wouldn't.
"C'mere," Michael murmured, and hefted Robbie so that the baby lay against his chest, Michael's arm under his bum, the other hand splayed against Robbie's back. He pressed a string of kisses to Robbie's hairline until the baby relaxed and tucked his face into Michael's neck. Michael smelled butter and pasta and the delicate shampoo Paul used on Robbie's hair, the last of the breakfast coffee, the summer smell of sunshine on grass that came through the open windows. Michael moved his hand in slow passes over Robbie's back. Robbie'd caught hold of the curls at the nape of Michael's neck, as he usually did, petting Michael's hair in response to having his back rubbed. He kept waiting for the baby to grow bored and wriggle, but they were still standing there when Paul sailed in. Michael thought that he'd figure this 'father' thing out someday. Maybe soon.