TM: Cheer Someone Up
The monitor lit up and crackled just a moment before the angry wail of a displeased infant flooded the room and woke Laine. Anrai was already getting out of bed, those keen púca ears of his not needing an electronic gadget to alert him to the baby down the hall. Irritating to Laine at moments like these. Still, she sat up and scrubbed a hand over her face before addressing her husband. “Don’t bother, darlin’. I need to feed her anyhow.”
Seeing as it was nearly two a.m., the Irishman didn’t argue. He simply flopped back onto the bed and turned over, face in pillow. Laine smacked him on the ass on her way out of the room. “Damned fool. What I even seen in you…”
Her rant didn’t last past the threshold of the master bedroom. Three weeks old, nearly to the day, and Laine was more than familiar with the child’s various cries and vocalizations. Jansen was hungry, no doubt. Between the hour and the fact that Laine’s breasts felt heavy with milk (which was now starting to leak and soak through the nursing pads in her bra) and the mewling, kittenish quality to her daughter’s fussing, the brunette felt more than confident that shushing the babe would only take a feeding.
“Hey now, my little noise maker, what is all that screamin’ about?” She entered the nursery and made her way to the crib, talking softly all the way. “Mama’s here, you can cut that out now. You’re wakin’ up the whole house.”
In the dim light she could see tiny fists clenched and pressed to the sides of a red, angry little face and she smiled. Jansen had her daddy’s dimples, plain to see even as the tiny thing screwed up her chubby face. Lifting her daughter up and automatically checking to see if her diaper was wet (it wasn’t), Laine tucked the small bundle against her shoulder and pressed a kiss to the child’s dark, downy hair. “Shhh now, hush. We’re goin’ to feed you, just give Mama a chance to sit down and get settled here.”
As Laine rocked back and forth in the nursery’s glider, babe contently nursing, she leaned her head back and let her eyes drift closed. She wasn’t sleeping, merely relaxed. Then she began to hum the first few bars to one of her favorite Stones tunes, ignoring the fact that her voice carried down the hall as well as played quite clearly over the baby monitor giving her husband a concert in stereo. Jansen was no longer fussing, Laine was nearly as comfortable as the child and in the master bedroom a very proud púca was smiling in the dark.
Laine Anderson MacEibhir//Flint Creek//451
Seeing as it was nearly two a.m., the Irishman didn’t argue. He simply flopped back onto the bed and turned over, face in pillow. Laine smacked him on the ass on her way out of the room. “Damned fool. What I even seen in you…”
Her rant didn’t last past the threshold of the master bedroom. Three weeks old, nearly to the day, and Laine was more than familiar with the child’s various cries and vocalizations. Jansen was hungry, no doubt. Between the hour and the fact that Laine’s breasts felt heavy with milk (which was now starting to leak and soak through the nursing pads in her bra) and the mewling, kittenish quality to her daughter’s fussing, the brunette felt more than confident that shushing the babe would only take a feeding.
“Hey now, my little noise maker, what is all that screamin’ about?” She entered the nursery and made her way to the crib, talking softly all the way. “Mama’s here, you can cut that out now. You’re wakin’ up the whole house.”
In the dim light she could see tiny fists clenched and pressed to the sides of a red, angry little face and she smiled. Jansen had her daddy’s dimples, plain to see even as the tiny thing screwed up her chubby face. Lifting her daughter up and automatically checking to see if her diaper was wet (it wasn’t), Laine tucked the small bundle against her shoulder and pressed a kiss to the child’s dark, downy hair. “Shhh now, hush. We’re goin’ to feed you, just give Mama a chance to sit down and get settled here.”
As Laine rocked back and forth in the nursery’s glider, babe contently nursing, she leaned her head back and let her eyes drift closed. She wasn’t sleeping, merely relaxed. Then she began to hum the first few bars to one of her favorite Stones tunes, ignoring the fact that her voice carried down the hall as well as played quite clearly over the baby monitor giving her husband a concert in stereo. Jansen was no longer fussing, Laine was nearly as comfortable as the child and in the master bedroom a very proud púca was smiling in the dark.
Laine Anderson MacEibhir//Flint Creek//451