Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
I turn back to the counter and set about making a cup of coffee. “Do you want one?” I ask. I start emptying the dishwasher while I wait for the coffee to brew.
“That would be great. Thanks.”
It’s a cup of coffee, so it’s not a big deal, but I’m pleased I can do something for him. He’s likely had his hands full since Guinevere woke up and a cup of coffee is probably exactly what he needs.
“Do you always do two things at once?” he asks.
I turn to make sure he’s talking to me.
“The dishwasher and the coffee. But you do it all the time. Folding the muslins and playing peekaboo. Doing laundry when you change her clothes. Putting out the bin when she has a dirty nappy.”
He’s been watching me. Observing. It sends a shiver down my spine.
“Just efficient, I guess.” I smile at him.
“Efficient. Huh.”
“Any plans for today?” I ask, wanting to get off the subject of me.
He takes a big breath in and then sighs. “Shit. I’ve got to cancel football this week.” He shakes his head. “Or I guess, forever.”
“Why?” I ask. Last time I saw him play—the day Doreen collapsed—it had been a Tuesday lunchtime. Does he play twice a week?
“Our team plays on Tuesday and Sunday,” he says, answering the question before I have a chance to ask it. “Unless I get a weekend nanny, which I’ve been thinking about.”
It must be difficult for him to adjust to being a father out of nowhere. But a weekend nanny wasn’t going to facilitate the bonding he needs so desperately with Guinevere. “I don’t have any plans today. In fact, I was going to go for a walk. Why don’t I bring Guinevere to the park while you play football?”
“It’s your day off. You don’t need to do that,” he says.
“Like I said, I don’t have any plans and I’m offering. It’s efficient—I get the walk and you get to play football. Then you’re not letting anyone down at the last minute and you have some time to figure out if you can make something work for Sundays.”
He fixes me with a stare that I feel between my thighs. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”
He pushes the pram to the park while I walk alongside the father-and-daughter duo. They’re beyond cute—Dax is so tall anyway, and next to the pram, he seems even more elongated.
“I’ve noticed a lot of people have their babies in a buggy-thing where they sit up. But Guinevere is in the cot wheely thing,” he says.
I don’t respond. I’ve learned over the years not to offer my opinion on the raising of children unless it’s immediately life threatening or explicitly solicited.
“Is that better?” he asks.
“Not in my opinion,” I say.
There’s a beat of silence. “You’re not going to elaborate?” he asks.
It’s a weird response. The usual response to invite elaboration might be something like, “Oh really? Why don’t you think so?” or some other such question. I get the impression Dax doesn’t comply with a lot of social norms.
I can’t help but smile. His lack of instinct to make things comfortable, his refusal to dance the usual steps in this situation, is disarming.
“Two reasons. Babies as young as Guinevere should be flat most of the time, which is why the pram is good. It helps the development of the spine. When she’s a little older, she can go in a buggy or a pushchair—two words for the same thing. And the second reason is, studies suggest the higher up prams and pushchairs are, the more they protect children from pollution.” I glance up at him to find his eyes narrowed. There’s a ridge between his eyes that suggests he’s listening. “Studies show that all prams should be a meter from the ground. Below that level is where most of the pollution is found. So, given Guinevere is in a pram in central London, I think it’s good to keep her as high as possible. The pram is higher than the pushchair.”
“Sounds reasonable,” he replies.
“As opposed to?”
He shrugs, “You know, some kind of kumbaya, eating-your-placenta type shit.”
“I read it in New Scientist, so that’s really not their vibe.”
“New Scientist?” he asks. “Is that your usual bedtime reading?”
“It’s my job to understand how I can best help the children I work for. Childrearing is all about science. And love.”
He grunts from beside me. “I’m interested in the science bit.”
The love bit is coming, I don’t say.
“I can send you some age-appropriate studies,” I say. It might be a way to nurture the bond between Dax and his daughter—give him the science, let him apply it, let it foster interest in his daughter. Let it help him love her.
He doesn’t say anything and we keep walking, past the black wrought iron railings of Coram’s Fields Park. He opens the heavy green gate as if it’s made of paper and backs the pram in, exactly as I would have done.