Shopping for a Baby’s First Christmas
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“Mmmmm,” I hear myself purring as I open my eyes in the big king-size bed at our Victorian B&B here in the Berkshires. A bed that I can stretch out in, because I smell coffee from afar and Dec isn’t between the sheets.
Neither is our seven-month-old daughter, Ellie.
I have the entire bed to myself. I might be married to a billionaire, but when you’re the mother of a clingy baby, this right here is true luxury.
A whiff of cinnamon accompanies that coffee and now I wonder if I’m dreaming. My naked body rolls against the high-thread-count Egyptian cotton and my legs are smooth. As I stretch, I realize my nipples are free. No one is touching me.
This must be a dream.
In real life, there would be a baby babbling “Da da da da da” in tones that either mean happiness, terror, hunger, or plain old pay-attention-to-me-now-because-I-am-the-center-of-the-universe, you-underling.
But not now.
In real life, there are always busy fingers exploring my ears and pulling my earrings and poking into my my mouth when I try to talk on the phone.
And in real life, little teeth bite down, hard, when my milk runs out.
So I must be dreaming, because as I open my eyes, a handsome, hot, endlessly naked man is smiling at me, hair tousled over his forehead as he holds two steaming mugs of coffee and says in a low, happy voice, “You’re up!”