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“She’s more like a dictator. She barely sleeps and doesn’t let me put her down, ever. She has demands, Damien.”
“Did she give you a list of terms?” He smirked.
“She did. But I don’t speak wailing. She looks at me with that look—‘Oh sorry, did you think this was your life? It’s mine now.’”
I could tell he was holding back a laugh. “She’s adorable. All seven pounds of her.”
“And those whole seven pounds control the entire household. We eat when she allows it. We sleep when she grants permission. My nipples have a punch card.”
“I’m jealous she gets your nipples and I don’t,” he said.
“Blame her. She won’t allow it.” I tipped the glass of wine to my lips. “And when we’re able to have sex again, she’ll dictate that too.”
“A night nurse, eh?” he asked.
“Yes. Let's start there.”
“I’ll get on it first thing tomorrow morning.” He smiled.
“I think I’ll keep you, Mr. Blackwood. A baby looks good on you.” I smiled.
“Okay. You can keep me. I’m here to serve your every need.”
* * *
I jumpedup from the couch when I heard the elevator ding.
“That’s her. The woman who may just save our lives!” I said.
Damien ran his hand down his shirt. “Do I look desperate?”
“No. But you do have spit up on your shirt.”
“Shit.” He looked down at the stain.
Damien and I stood in front of the elevator, waiting to greet the woman, while Daisy was sleeping in her swing. The door opened, and a woman in her 40s, who smelled like lavender and boundaries, stepped into the foyer.
“Hi. I’m Sabrina. I’m here for the interview.”
“Welcome to the battlefield.” I grinned, hugging her. “I’m Willa Blackwood, and this is my husband, Damien.”
“Welcome to our home.” Damien shook her hand. “Can I offer you some coffee?”
“No, thank you. I’m fine.” She pleasantly smiled.
As we led her into the living room, Daisy let out a burp from the baby swing and spit up all over her onesie. I looked at Sabrina, and she didn’t even flinch. “Aw, did you spit up?” She smiled at Daisy. “Let’s get you changed. Do you have another outfit for her?”
“You just picked her up without a care in the world that her spit up will get all over your clothes. That is so hot,” I said.
“She means professional. That’s very professional,” Damien said.
“Thank you. After I get her changed, we can talk schedules, responsibilities, and your comfort level of sleep training.”
“Have you ever seen a grown man cry because his daughter refused to burp?” I asked her.
“Come on, Willa. I did not,” Damien said, handing Sabrina a new onesie and a clean diaper.
“Yes, you did. I was there.”