HEATHER MACALLISTER - The Bachelor and the Babies

“That’s a dangerous hobby for a kid his age.”

“You need outlet plugs.”

“So, I’ll get outlet plugs.” Wherever those might be.

Jon still looked worried. “You know, you ought to come live at our house for the week. That’s where all the boys’ stuff is.”

“And my stuff is here. I’ll have more credibility with clients if I incorporate the boys into my own environment. I’ll have a better understanding of what adjustments people who have children must make.” Harrison was prepared to continue lecturing, but Jon was wrestling a squirmy Nathan into his high chair. and obviously not listening to him.

“I never realized how much glass you have here,” Jon called from the kitchen as he poured a few Cheerios onto the high chair tray. Nathan squealed and pounded the tray, bouncing cereal onto the floor where it rolled who knew where. “I’m going to buy furniture bumpers after I finish unloading.”

Harrison didn’t ask. what furniture bumpers were, but imagined they weren’t going to enhance the appearance of his once-pristine home. At Jon’s insistence, he’d already removed the set of crystal coasters, fireplace tools, his collection of kaleidoscopes and anything sharp, breakable, or flammable. That pretty much cleared all surfaces three feet high or less.

Jon pulled open the cabinet beneath the kitchen sink and removed Harrison’s cleaning supplies. “Store these up high, or get child safety latches for the cabinets.” Looking around, he ultimately set the assortment of cleaners on top of the refrigerator.

“I’m running out of high places.” Harrison put the pad in the bottom of the playpen and transferred a sleeping Matthew from his infant seat to the playpen. The baby was a sound sleeper. Good. They were going to get along just fine.

Jon walked over and stared down at his son. “He’s a cute little guy, isn’t he?”

He looked like a typical baby to Harrison. “Yes. Sure is.”

Jon checked his watch. “This is a long morning nap for him, but it’ll be easier to let him sleep until we’ve got everything settled. He was up in the night. If he gets cranky, don’t worry. He’s teething.”

Harrison waved around the room. “Is this everything?”

His brother laughed. “Of course not. I haven’t brought up their toys, yet. And there is a case of formula, diapers, the baby bath and a potty seat.”

“Potty seat?”

“We’ve just started toilet-training, so don’t expect miracles.”

“I expect nothing in that area.” Harrison didn’t want to go anywhere near that area.

“At least Nathan will see it in your bathroom and maybe get the idea.” Jon shoved his hands into the pockets of his khaki pants. “I’ll bring up the humidifier, too, but I hope you won’t need it.”

As he wondered where he was going to store everything, Harrison vowed to devote a minimum of one chapter in the Rothwell Domestic Primer to simplifying the amount of baby equipment insecure new parents had been convinced they needed. “Who needs a humidifier in Houston?” he wondered aloud.

“Parents with sick kids.” After delivering that chilling piece of information, Jon left to bring up another load of the unending supplies needed to raise two small boys.

The instant the door closed, Nathan burst into tears. “Daaa-deee!”

“Hey, sport. Remember me?” Harrison crunched on cereal as he entered the kitchen. “It’s Uncle Harrison.” That sounded awkward, but Harrison was not going to be called Hare. Harry was not to be considered.

Apparently Nathan did not remember Uncle anybody and continued to cry.

Harrison poured him more cereal.

Still crying, but not as hard, Nathan ate a handful, then said, “Joose!”

“Juice!” Harrison repeated, his voice booming with false heartiness. “The man wants juice.” Trying to avoid stepping on cereal, he opened the refrigerator. “We’ve got orange juice, tomato juice and beer juice.” He looked over the door at his nephew. “That’s a joke.”

“Joose!” Nathan smacked the plastic tray for emphasis.

Since orange juice seemed to go with the cereal theme, that’s what Harrison poured. He reached for a glass, then realized what he was doing and chose a plastic cup he’d bought at a Rockets basketball game. Who said he didn’t have parenting instincts?

He poured a small amount of juice into the thirtyounce souvenir cup and offered it to Nathan.

“Joose?”

“Juice,” Harrison reassured him.

Nathan gleefully grabbed the cup with both hands.

“Need some help?”

“Nathan do it.” He swiveled his body away and tilted the cup.

All the liquid rushed from the bottom of the tall cup to his face, startling him. He dropped the cup, blinked in surprise, snorted juice out his nose, then howled.

Harrison stared. With breathtaking speed, his kitchen, painted a fashionable white, with white tile and cabinets, had been splattered far and wide with dribblets of orange juice and pulp.

He picked his way to the paper towel dispenser and attempted to mop up Nathan.

That was the scene which greeted Jon’s return. “Nathan,” he called from the door, propping it open with a case of formula.

“Da-da!”

“Everything’s under control,” Harrison told him as Jon tossed in plastic bundles and boxes of diapers, which bounced and rolled over the couch. “We only spilled juice.”

Jon walked over and stared at the mess. Bending down, he picked up the cup. “Is this what you gave him?”

Nodding, Harrison threw more paper towels on the floor. Nathan had stopped crying, his interest caught by Cheerios floating in the orange juice on his tray.

Unfortunately Nathan’s crying had awakened the baby, Matthew.

How could such a tiny person make such a loud sound?

“Nathan has a cup with a lid on it in the diaper bag. Use that,” Jon suggested as he went to tend to Matthew.

“Now he tells me,” Harrison muttered.

“Oh, and you’ll have to strain the orange juice. The pulp clogs the spout.”

The only strainer Harrison possessed was a cocktail strainer. It was barely adequate.

“You want a diapering lesson?” Jon asked.

“I can figure it out.” Harrison spoke from the kitchen floor just as something dropped in his hair. His fingers encountered a squishy lump. Cereal. Or what used to be cereal before it absorbed orange juice. He looked up and caught Nathan shoving more over the side of his tray.

“I’ve learned a couple of diapering tricks that might make your life easier,” Jon said.

“And other than keeping your children in a cage and hosing them down twice a day, that would be...?”

Jon laughed. “Don’t think I haven’t considered it. But seriously, don’t leave Matthew alone on a table or he’ll roll off, and keep him covered at all times.”

“Why? He’s not going to get cold.”

“He squirts. And this kid has got an impressive range.”

Harrison stood and peered over the kitchen bar. His brother had unfolded a plastic pad and was changing Matthew’s diaper on the floor in front of the fireplace.

Harrison had fond memories of other activities that had taken place on the floor in front of the fireplace.

He would never feel the same about that area of his home.

A knock sounded at the door. “Excuse me?” A grouchy Carrie Brent stood framed in the open doorway. “How’s a person to get any sleep around here?”

Carrie, in her typically casual way, looked as if she’d rolled out of bed and climbed the stairs to Harrison’s floor. She wore a giant gray sweatshirt with arms so long her hands disappeared into the sleeves. The bottom edge stopped a few inches above her knees and her feet were bare.

The contrast between the rumpled Carrie who stood in his doorway and the Carrie who’d come to his office yesterday was...interesting. Very interesting. So interesting that orange juice dripped from the paper towels Harrison held onto his running shoe before he realized he was staring.