Fine!

by

Reagan Kavanagh

This work of adult fiction, loosely based on characters portrayed by Russell Crowe, includes adult language and experiences; you have been warned.  No copyright infringement on the original work is intended.  Copyright Reagan Kavanagh 2007.




MAXIMUS
“Fine!”

I had again blundered into that netherworld of ‘fine.’ She turned and walked away from me as I stood beside Emily’s cot. She has told me on numerous occasions that in this time an infant’s bed is termed a crib, but I persist in calling it a cot. That was not the reason for her displeasure with me; if only it were so simple.

I returned to our bedroom to find her with pillow in hand as she walked toward the door.

“Where are you going?”

“Upstairs to one of the guest rooms. I can hear any sound or movement she makes quite well from there and be downstairs in 10 seconds. There’s a baby monitor in that room – as in every other room in this house – to insure that we always know what she’s doing. Sleep well. I’ll see you in the morning.”


We had moved into our new home some weeks past following my installing baby monitors in all occupied rooms in the house, as well as the mud room that led to the garage. We were unpacked and settled but for a few boxes of books yet to be placed in the cases in the lounge. The tetchiness experienced by my wife following Emily's birth – and which seemed to have disappeared – had returned. Our daughter was now past two months of age, and I had called Sharon Fletcher in desperation.

“Sharon, she is usually of calm demeanour, yet since shortly following the birth of the babe, she has been most irritable.”

“Max, it’s called postpartum depression. Some women get weepy and dysfunctional. Others like Reagan get irritable as Hell. Be glad she’s irritable rather than depressed; those who display overt depression rather than irritability often neglect their children. If she’s not over it in a couple of weeks, let me know. I’ll call to see how she’s doing and talk her into a short course of anti-depressant therapy.”

“Why is it termed depression if she is irritable?”

“It’s a matter of predisposition, Max. Her basic personality is optimistic and outgoing, so her depression displays more as irritability than sitting in the corner and feeling sorry for herself. If she had more introverted personality traits, she’d be crying all the time.”

“I see.” I had no concept of what she was saying to me.

“I don’t really think you do, Max.” How is it that women seem always to know what men think – and what we do and do not comprehend – whilst we are ignorant of those areas in women’s thoughts?

“I confess I do not. Your words required a response, and I could think of nothing else.” She laughed, and my heart lifted momentarily.

“Max, try and roll with the punches. Reagan’s an eminently practical woman, and she knows what’s going on with herself. She’s trying to avoid medication as if I put her on anything, she’ll have to stop breastfeeding Emily for the duration. That means she stops permanently, because if she stops for the month to six weeks she’s on meds, her milk will dry up and won’t come back. She’s not ready to wean your daughter off the breast at this point, so you’re both stuck. Try not to upset her if you can avoid it, because any upset will impact the quality of her milk production and that will impact Emily.”

“How will it impact my daughter?”

“The quality of Reagan’s milk will suffer. Emily will be fussy or colicky as a result. It won’t do her any long term damage, but she could be a pretty unhappy little girl for a while.”

Colic. The very word struck terror in my heart. I had seen more horses die of colic than any other malady. The thought of my child in such agony and dying as a result was almost more than I could bear.

“Sharon, the babe must not develop colic, she could ….” She interrupted my words.

“Human babies don’t die of colic, Max. I know you’ve seen that happen with horses, but the anatomy is entirely different. She might be in pain for a while, but it won’t kill her. Trust me on that one. Call her paediatrician and talk to him. He’ll reassure you.” I took a deep breath.

“You are quite sure of this? If Emily should colic, she will not be in any true danger?”

“She’ll fuss and cry and won’t sleep much – nor will you and Reagan – but that’s it. It will pass as soon as Reagan settles down. The ball’s in your court, Max. Play the set as well as you can, and call me if the problem doesn’t resolve within two weeks.” She rang off, and I replaced the phone on its base. I could not seek further information or solace from Terry; he had rarely been at home when his son was a babe. Dino had never fathered a child, at least not to his knowledge, and his brother's children were past infancy when he cared for them. I rose from my desk and walked to the front office to speak with Sooze.

“Have you plans for luncheon? No? Would you join me this day? I have need of your womanly counsel.”


“It was pretty short-lived for me, Max. Most of my depression after Dolores was born was focused on the fact that she and her father would never know each other.”

“I fear that if my wife does not resolve this soon, my daughter will also never know her father.”

“Oh, come on, Max. Cut the drama queen act. Reags isn’t that bad, and she has resources most women can’t even dream of to get herself back on track.”

“She has yet to avail herself of them, Sooze.”

“Well, it’s hard to apply what you know when you’re the one with the problem. We’re all a little short-sighted in that respect.” I took a sip of my coffee as I looked across the table at her. My dessert was untouched and would remain so. I had ordered it at Sooze’s urging, and it was chocolate.

“Would you care for my dessert? I have no taste for it this day, and it seems foolish to waste it.” Her answer was her smile, and I moved it across the table to her and smiled as she put her fork into it. After the first bite, she looked up at me.

“Would you like me to invite Reags to have lunch with me on Saturday? She can bring Emily if she likes, and I’m more than capable of getting the conversation around to how she’s feeling. Dolores has a debate tournament that will keep her busy all weekend – Sarah can haul her there and back – so it will be just the two of us.”

“You would not object? I feel as though I am impressing you to duty.” She laughed and shook her head.

“No problem. It’s been a while since I’ve seen Reags and Emily, and I’d love it. We might get the side benefit of my getting her to talk out some of her frustration. I’ll make a run at it.”

That conversation took place on Wednesday. It was on Thursday night that my wife left my bed. The proposed Saturday luncheon did not take place.


REAGAN
How do you make a man of the second century understand that children do not sleep in their parents’ bedroom? Yes, it may have been the custom in his day, but in that time women also breastfed their children until they were two-years-old. That wasn’t going to happen with Emily, nor was she going to sleep in our room. I needed reinforcements, someone Max might actually hear telling him this was ridiculous. I picked up the phone and dialled the number I'd had memorised since childhood.

“Hello.”

“Rosemary, it's Reagan. How are you?” I thought I'd put just the right tone in that cheery greeting. I should have known Rosemary would see through it.

“I'm fine, Honey. What's wrong?”

“What makes you think something's wrong?”

“You identified yourself. The only time you do that is when something's bothering you. If you're just calling to bend my ear, you say 'Hey, Rosemary, it's me.' So …what's wrong?”

“I'm going to pinch Max's head off and tell God he died suddenly.”

“God will know differently. What's Max done to set you off like this?” I sighed.

“Rosemary, Emily's pushing three-months-old, and it's time for her to move into her nursery. It's right across the hall from our bedroom, and Max is pitching a fit about it. He's of the opinion that babies should sleep in their parents' room until they reach the age of consent.” I should have known she'd laugh and laughed with her. It was probably the first time I'd laughed in weeks.

“How old is that husband of yours …43, 44? And didn't you tell me he wasn't around much when his first child was a baby?”

“Right on both counts.”

“He's just being a daddy, Honey. Women defend their children like a tigress; men like your husband seem to walk around with a sword in their hand to keep away anything they think might harm their children. It's normal.” She had no idea how accurate she was with that description.

“All right, point taken, but how do I convince him that she needs to be in her own room now?”

“You got a roll-away bed or a cot?”

“No. We have five functional bedrooms in this house with at least one bed in each of them. Why would we need a roll-away or a cot?”

“For new daddies to sleep on in their baby's nursery for the first few nights until they realize the baby won't die of loneliness from not being in the room with mommy and daddy. They also feel better if they're there to scare away the bogey-man.” Oh. Somehow that particular topic wasn't covered in my grad school courses on the parent-infant bond.

“No cot and no roll-away. I guess I could get some old blankets and make him a pallet on the floor, and let him sleep in there with her for a couple of nights.”

“That should do it. By the third night, his back will be hurting from sleeping on the floor, and he'll be missing having you to snuggle with him. Try it and let me know how it works.” From Rosemary's lips to my husband's ear. I'd give it a try.


MAXIMUS
Cassandra's mood was improved when I arrived home Friday evening, yet I steeled myself for the argument to come when it was time to put Emily to bed for the night. I followed Cassandra down the hall and entered our room expecting her to follow me. She did not. She went to the nursery and placed Emily in her cot; it had been removed from our room whilst I was at work that day and reinstalled in the nursery. I sighed and went across the hall in time to see her place our daughter into her cot before turning to face me.

“Emily is not going to continue sleeping in our room. She's an infant, and we need our privacy. I've made a pallet for you here on the floor. You can sleep in here with her for a few nights to reassure yourself that she won't come to any harm by being 15 feet away from us. When you've accomplished that, I'll be waiting for you in our room.” She smiled brightly, turned and walked out the door, snapping off the light as she went. I was left in the gloom of the night light plugged into the wall socket.

I stood over our daughter’s cot and watched her as she slept. I reached down to stroke the soft hair; it was turning darker now, growing closer to the shade of my own. I would have been content had Emily's hair remained the lighter shade it was at her birth, but Cassandra seemed pleased that it was darkening. I smiled to myself as my fingers trailed over the satin of her small cheek; I am blessed in this child and her mother irrespective of our recent differences as regards our daughter.

I looked at the pallet on the floor beside Emily's cot. It was raised an inch or so off the floor, and on kneeling to touch it, realised Cassandra has utilised the so-called egg crate – the foam padding – that was on her bed whilst in hospital following Emily's birth. Though not giving in to my wish for Emily to remain in our room, she had made the pallet as comfortable as possible until such time as I assured myself that our child would be safe sleeping in her nursery. I walked across the hall to our room and into the bath where Cassandra was preparing for bed.

I undressed and cleaned my teeth, donning pajamas against the possible draft on the floor and the requisite modesty of a father sleeping in the room with his female child, kissed my wife good night, and took my pillow from the bed. Cassandra and I had not yet resumed our marital relations though Sharon had released her for such activity some weeks past. My wife was insistent that 'nothing' would occur whilst Emily was in our room. Perhaps that edict would facilitate my acceptance of her dictum, though to date it had not proven effective. Apparently, more persuasive measures were required. Sleeping on the floor might be the point that tipped the scale in her favour.


REAGAN
Max spent Friday night on the floor in Emily's nursery. Note that I said spent the night. I do not imply that he slept, because he didn't, at least not a great deal. I didn't sleep much either, and I think I heard his movement via the baby monitor every time he shifted position. The fact that he was so restless was proof that he wasn't sleeping; the man usually sleeps like the dead and rarely moves more than two or three times a night. I'm a very light sleeper, and I notice little things like that.

I was in the kitchen making coffee when he arose the next morning and turned to see him walking toward me with his bathrobe over his pajamas. He was moving slowly, as if his back ached, and I imagine it did. I know mine would have after a night on the floor. I put on a sunny smile and raised my face for his morning kiss.

“Morning, Caro. Did you rest well?” That got me a small frown.

“Not particularly so, but I suspect you know that.”

“I do. Hopefully, it won't take many nights on the floor for you to realise the bogey man doesn't exist and that Emily is perfectly safe in her own room.” He didn't respond to that but went to the front door and opened it to retrieve the newspaper. I'm still in awe that the adolescent male who delivers our newspaper actually comes all the way to the house and puts it on the porch rather than leaving it in the mailbox half-a-mile up the road. Max sat at the kitchen table and looked over the front page. I waited for the coffee to finish perking, poured, and took cups for both of us to the table. He looked up when I sat across from him.

“Max, please try and understand …I'm not trying to punish you. I don't think you're foolish for worrying about Emily being in the nursery alone for the first time. I worry about her, too.” He'd looked down at the paper when I started speaking, but now he raised his head and put down the section of paper in his hands.

“If you are worried also, why do you insist she move to the nursery at this time? Why can that move not wait a bit longer?”

“Because the longer she's in the room with us, the harder it will be for both of us to move her. She's still young enough that she won't realise she's no longer as physically close to us as she has been. The trauma is one-sided, Caro, and that side is ours. In another couple of months, she will have sufficient awareness to miss our nearness, and at that time it will be hard for her. She won't understand what's happening, and it will be emotionally traumatic. Don't you think a bit of trauma for us now is better than traumatising our child at whatever point in time you think she's ready for the move?”

He stood and went to the lounge, retrieving his pipe, tobacco, and matches and returned. He went about the ritual of packing his pipe and lighting up, puffed a few times, and looked back at me.

“If I agree to moving her to the nursery, will you agree to allowing her to remain in our bedroom until she is three months of age?” I searched my brain for anything I could recall about cognitive development and growing awareness in infants. I couldn't recall anything that indicated a child's awareness outside of herself until about four months of age. I could give in on this point and feel relatively secure that another couple of weeks with us wouldn't traumatise Emily. I nodded slowly.

“All right. Three months with us, but on the day of her three-month birthday, she moves into the nursery.” My husband held his hand across the table and I met it with mine. He raised it to his lips and kissed my fingertips.

“Agreed.”


MAXIMUS
I felt as enervated as after a successful bargaining session with one of the Marcommani tribal chieftains. She had stated her position; I had countered with an acceptable compromise. We had agreed to terms, and truce was effected. I felt myself begin to harden, a not uncommon occurrence for men following a successful battle. Emily chose that moment to awaken, and I stood, tightening the belt of my robe.

“I will change her nappy and bring her to you for her breakfast. Do you think she will sleep again once her belly is full?” It was still dark outside, being late February and just after six in the morning. My wife nodded.

“Most likely. Why? Did you have something in mind?” Her slow smile in response to my nod gave me hope, and I made my way to the nursery. I returned a few minutes later with our daughter in my arms, clean nappy firmly in place, and handed her off to Cassandra. She opened her robe and pulled her gown off her shoulder on one side. The fullness of her breasts increased my arousal. Ten minutes later, my wife returned our drowsy child to her cot – in the nursery – and took the hand I held out to her. It had been months since last we had coupled; we were both more than ready.


I removed my bathrobe and tossed it to the foot of our bed and looked at my wife. Her face was flushed as my hands went to the belt of her robe and loosened it. There was a breathy quality to her voice when she spoke.

“It's been so long …I almost feel as if it's the first time we've ever made love.” I moved her robe from her shoulders, and it fell to the floor as my eyes feasted on her breasts in the sheer covering of her nightdress.

“Then let us rediscover each other.” Removing my pajama top, I lay on the bed and drew her down into my arms, my lips seeking her throat. Within moments my cock was as rigid as the blade of my gladius; I caught my breath as her fingers encircled me through the fabric. She moved her hand from my cock and both hands went to the waist of my pajama bottoms, tugging them downward as I raised my hips to assist her. When they were gone, my own hands went to the hem of her gown, and she straightened, allowing me to lift it over her head and toss it away. She would have no further need of it this day. Within the month she would have no need of it at all, nor I for pajamas. We had begun sleeping in bedclothes following Emily's birth. For some reason unknown to me, there had been an unspoken agreement between us that as long as our child was in our bedroom, we would not sleep nude as was our usual habit.

I rolled her onto her back and looked down at her. Her fingers returned to my cock, and my own sought her opening and moved slowly inside of her. She was wet and tight as always, though the latter surprised me as she had so recently given birth. I could not wait and reached to the bookcase headboard of our bed for the bottle of lubricant sitting there. I had spoken with Sharon when my wife had been given permission to resume our activities, and had been cautioned to use lubricant initially until Cassandra's walls had again stretched sufficiently to accommodate my girth without causing her pain.

“Unused tissues shrink, Max. You don't want to hurt her the first few times.” Indeed I did not. I dribbled the liquid on my cock and smoothed it all round as Cassandra opened her legs.

“I will try not to hurt you, Cara. You must tell me if I should stop.”

“I need you, Maximus, I want you. I don't think it's going to hurt.”

Regrettably, it did, at least initially. She caught her lower lip between her teeth as I entered her, and I made to withdraw. Her hands on my buttocks stopped me.

“It doesn't hurt that much …I'm just a little tight. Move slowly; give me time to stretch a bit, and I'll be fine.”

It was far better than simply fine. Within minutes it was if we had never ceased our activities. I felt her walls tighten round me, pulling me in as I pumped slowly inside her, then rapidly achieved a quicker rhythm. It had been too long, and I could not last long enough to fully satisfy her. I brought her to completion with my mouth a few moments later, and we lay sweaty and entwined in each other's arms. I felt her lips on my neck.

“I love you.”

“And I love you, Cara, more than words can say.” We sank into the slumber of the well satiated and did not awaken until we hard Emily's cry on the baby monitor.


Two hours later we were in the lounge, and Cassandra had finished Emily's mid-morning feeding. Our daughter was now fully awake and ready to be entertained. I fetched her favourite toy from the nursery and took her into my lap, holding her with one arm as I alternately wiggled the cloth cow in front of her face and made kissing noises as I brought it up to tickle her belly. She gurgled and waved her chubby arms in apparent delight; she was smiling. I looked at Cassandra.

“Is it the colours that attract her attention?” My wife had long since explained that an infant's vision is poor; they are unable to distinguish objects well until close to three months, though colour vision is present from birth. It is not until about six months that their vision sharpens to adult acuity. Until about four months of age, they identify those caring for them by odours rather than sight.

“It could be gas, but as she isn't fussy, it's most likely the colours. She's obviously getting better at discriminating borders. Have you noted that now she tries to grab your beard or your hair? She can discern the spot where your skin stops and hair takes over.”

“Yes, I have noted that.” We laughed together. Three days past Emily had grabbed a handful of my hair and succeeded in pulling out a few strands before I could extricate myself from her grasp. I rubbed the spot on my head; it was yet sore from the hard tug, and Cassandra laughed.

“Now you know why I keep mine either pulled back with an Alice band or in a braid down my back.”

Emily soon tired and began to yawn; it was time for her nap, and I carried her to the cot, changing her nappy again before settling in the rocker with her in my arms. I sang softly to her in Latin as I rocked, a tune I recalled hearing my mother sing to my younger sister, Lucia, when she was a babe. I am sure my mother sang it to me as well.

As my child went to sleep, my fingers touched the golden bulla round her neck. It was not unlike those of my time in appearance, a small golden locket with an amulet inside for luck.

Emily's life will be one of dual roles and realities; I acknowledge that will be difficult for her at times. She is a child of the 21^st century, yet her parents have their roots in antiquity, and Cassandra and I honour the memory and customs of our ancestors. Though my wife is Christian, our mutual roots are pagan, and she pays homage to her ancient ways in addition to her modern beliefs; the bulla worn by our child is an exemplar of that. Cassandra and I would one day tell Emily of our origins. We could only hope she would not think us mad when we revealed to her the truth of our past and her own history.

Emily's dies lustricus – the naming ceremony during in which I acknowledged her as the child of my loins – was held on the eighth day following her birth; had she been a male child, the ceremony would have taken place on the ninth day. I had placed the bulla round her neck on that day, the 26^th of December. There was a small turquoise placed in the centre of the bulla signifying the month of her birth. It would be returned to me on the day of her marriage, as was the custom in my time.

She slept with her small head resting against my chest. I felt the tears come to my eyes as my heart swelled with love for her and gratitude for my wife in giving me the gift of this child. I stood and placed her carefully into her cot. I did not hear Cassandra enter the room; I was unaware of her presence until I felt her fingers entwine with mine and turned to smile at her.

“She is so beautiful, so infinitely precious to me …as are you.” Cassandra's head leant to rest on my shoulder, her voice low and soft in my ear.

“As are you to me. You have given me the most blessed gift any woman can have.” She raised her head and looked me fully in the eyes.

“I want another child, Maximus, as soon as Sharon says it's safe.”

Once our daughter was of an age to no longer required the undivided attentions of her parents, I could ask for nothing more.

NOTES

Bulla

A traditional gift to all Roman children on the day of the dies lustricus, consisting of a token suspended from a chain, most often a locket with a good luck charm – AKA, an amulet – inside to protect the child from harm. A girl surrendered her bulla to her father when she married, boys when they donned the longer toga worn by adult Roman males at about age 14.

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