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The one with Bela Dimitrescu as a mother [imagines]
Fluff: establish marriage - Bela Dimitrescu | feminine reader
The aroma of steamed vegetables and cooked meat traveled through the air vents of your home. Bela stood in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, glasses perched on her nose, pin-straight hair tied back with a dark red clip, meticulously preparing your meals for the week. You told her earlier that it was fine; she was tired and overworked, and you were more than capable of cooking for yourself, but she insisted you'd lie on the couch and nurse cup after cup of water.
“Hydration is most important.” Her voice rang out as she refilled your cup for the third time today.
“Bela, I'm going to piss the baby out if you keep making me drink like this.” You watched her disappear back into the kitchen, resuming her attention on the pans on the stove. You knew Bela was precise, calculated, determined, and stubborn. The handful of diplomas and awards that lined her office's walls were plain proof, but you didn't think she'd go full military mode once you got pregnant.
“You need enough water for two! Technically, I should be giving you up to twelve cups. Be grateful it's only eight.”
You nuzzled into the couch with a groan. Twelve cups of water sounded absolutely dreadful. “I need sugar. Can't I have a soda?”
You heard the heat knob on the stove click off, followed by a few clangs of silverware as she placed her utensils in the sink. She appeared in the doorway – slender, tall frame dressed with a cream sweater and blue jeans, her arms crossed with a raised brow. “Soda?”
You swallowed thickly, nodding; your eyes drinking her in.
“Fruits have sugar. I can make you a bowl of pineapple and strawberries.”
You pouted; she held up her finger to quiet your argument. “Soda is off limits. You can have fruits or juice.”
You stared at her, baffled, your mouth open in disbelief.
“Are you mothering me?!” You stood, albeit very clumsily, “Bela, you can't restrict me from everything unhealthy.”
The corner of her lips curved into a small smirk as she watched you, belly fully prominent under your white maternity dress, wobble your way towards her at a speed a turtle could beat. “No soda. Do you want ice cream instead?”
With a defeated huff, you nodded. Bela outreached her hand, intertwining it with yours as she carefully guided you into the kitchen, opening the top freezer on the refrigerator for you to pick out which flavor you wanted.
“Can I have juice too?” You asked quietly, practically clinging onto her right arm.
She kissed the top of your head, never shaking off your hold on her arm; instead, she simply maneuvered around you to grab a bowl and a dramatically elegant teacup her mother gave her. Bela was never one for patience, but this was different. You were different. She hardly had any free time as it was – her work took up a good chunk of it, but she always made room to cater to you. She even switched to working at home so that she could monitor you all day.
Bela prepared your treat, listening wholeheartedly to your rambles about the show you were watching and the book you almost finished reading; two hobbies you both had in common. When she was done, she led you back to the couch, fussing over your blanket to ensure you were cozy before personally feeding you yourself.
“Okay, you really don't have to feed me.” You deadpanned. You loved her thoroughness, but this was ridiculous.
“The baby asked me to.” She flatly returned, practically shoving the spoon in your mouth. You let her win with a few giggles, deciding arguing with her would serve no purpose. Changing Bela's mind was always a near-impossible task to do.
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
Bela paced the room the night you had given birth, her hands held to her face as she wore a hole into the marble floors. She did everything she could – held your hand, kissed your forehead, whispered sweet nothings and small praises – yet she still felt so hopeless. Even now, hours later, your pain rings through her head on a torturous repeat. She's happy, over the moon, completely ecstatic, but she feels so guilty for reasons she knows weren't in her control. She was tired, eyes burning, but she couldn't fall asleep. The two most important girls were lying side by side in their own hospital beds, peacefully sleeping after a hard day. She had to be sure nothing bad happened, not that it would, but she still had to be sure.
Bela's eyes fell on the bundle of pink blankets, perfectly swaddled by the nurse earlier. She didn't feel real; she felt as if she were looking through the eyes of someone else. Staring down at her daughter was an out-of-body experience she hadn't read in any of those parental guidebooks.
Her pale, unsteady hand reached down, her index finger tracing a featherweight line along a chubby cheek. Bela was thankful the child was gaining more color to her complexion; she was disturbingly purple and red when she first came out. She was slightly whiter now, her skin mirroring Bela's. Bela smiled, her tired eyes welling with tears at the realization. This was her kid – a perfect mix of both you and her combined into one person. How was this possible? She used to bully you in college! She was council president, and yet, despite all of the teases and remarks she would throw about your clothes or your hobbies, you were the nerdy girl who made her laugh. Now you were her wife, and her partner in raising a fully functional adult for the next twenty-five years.
Holy shit, was this a crisis, or just shock?
Her bottom lip quivered; she tried to hold it steady between her teeth, but to no use. A small sob broke free, forcing her to use a hand to cover her mouth. The last thing she wanted was to wake either of you.
She leaned down, her forehead resting on the baby’s, careful not to apply too much weight, just enough to feel the contact. She'd only been a mother for six hours, yet she was already as in love as she was petrified. Her chest tightened with joy and anxiety clashing together.
Bela planted uneven kisses along her face, finding most interest in that tiny nose that looked so much like yours. She kissed it three times.
The baby stirred, but never fully woke. It seemed she was pretty worn out from her dramatic entrance earlier. Bela wanted to hold her; itches crawled beneath her skin, but still, she refused. She'd have plenty of time to hold her later at more appropriate moments, moments where she wouldn't disturb you.
Bela straightened her posture; sharp, blue eyes landing onto your resting form. You were slightly discolored, no doubt the medicine taking effect, and your face permanently held a tiny pout.
Bela walked over to you, leaning over your bed to give your face an equal amount of kisses as she gave her daughter's, ensuring your nose was kissed three times for good luck. Maybe that would become a new routine.
She took a minute to stare, her mind still bewildered at the entire situation. She could see the image of younger you wandering through the halls having no clue what you did to her – how you made her so nervous she thought she'd vomit, how she was so lost in staring at you that she fell down the stairwell, how mercilessly her sisters teased her for losing her cool reputation. You ruined her in the best ways, yet you were oblivious the entire time.
She laughed quietly to herself, recalling your first date, your first kiss, how she used to never listen to anyone, but now you boss her around like nobody's business. She'd choose you ten times over again.
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
You were cleared to leave a few days later, where you happily enjoyed watching Bela's hospital mom-walk, forearm veins on display as she carried the car seat with ease. Both of you were excited to finally set your baby up in her nursery, to introduce her to the home she would grow up in, and mostly, to finally sleep in your own bed. Your back was aching from the hospital bed, and you knew the couch was rough on Bela, even if she didn't complain.
The drive home was with quiet conversation, you and Bela bonding over how clueless and scared you both felt for the future. She'd comfort you with cheesy lines, though ones that always made you feel like a giddy teenager: “I'll always be here.” “At least we're together.”
Settling in at the house went relatively smoothly; you only cried when you showed the very sleepy and totally uninterested daughter each room and hallway and even the closets, but overall, a smooth transition.
Bela helped you shower, using all of her willpower to avoid your wandering hands and lingering kisses.
“You literally just gave birth. Take a few months off of the job.”
“You started it.” You bit your lip, causing her to sharply inhale and force her own strength to tell you no.
She cooked dinner while you bounced a fussy baby, trying your hardest not to literally scream in pain as she fed from your sore breasts.
Bela, special, unique Bela, turned around when she heard a small hiss – brows furrowing, her hands opening a cupboard to take out a notebook and pen, pan sizzling behind her as she scribbled down random notes.
“I'm studying her behavior.”
“Oh, okay.” You nodded in complete understanding, then the words fully processed: “Wait, you're doing what?”
Bela looked up at you; big, round eyes staring into yours like she didn't get your confusion.
“I'm studying her behavior. You know, to make sure she's developing right and stuff.”
Bela nodded, “I think so. She's eating, which is normal for her age.”
You were dumbfounded, rightfully so, but decided to just…let her do her thing. Maybe Bela was more sleep-deprived than you thought. After a few more scribbles, she closed the notebook with a satisfied hum and turned back to the stove like she wasn't losing her sanity.
And you had just given birth to a mini her.
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
Bela formed a routine where, for the most part, she would take the night shift. You promised she didn't have to; you voiced that you worried for her health, especially since she had work, but she promised she was fine with a kiss to each of your cheeks.
And while, yes, she was fine with this new schedule, she also had different motivations.
When the baby stirred, hungry and sleepy and angry all at once, Bela discovered how much she loved sitting in the rocking chair in the corner of the nursery, bottle-feeding her daughter while she told stories of when you two were dating, and then her favorite part, reading her to sleep. She'd cradle her close to her chest, ensuring she could hear and feel Bela's heartbeat, and then began to read her academic-level novels rather than the cartoon ones across the room.
“It's good for her brain.” She'd argue in the morning.
“You're making her weird.” You'd tease, devilish fingers already reaching out to tickle her sides.
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
Bela quickly learned that she had quite literally met her match. You challenged her, yes, but this was worse.
Her mother used to tell stories of how Bela's wits shone through her infant behavior, how even as a child she was so precise and thoughtful.
Come to find out, she had competition.
Six months in; a relaxing family night in the living room, a movie playing on the T.V as both you and Bela sat on the floor with your daughter, splitting your attention between playing with her and watching the screen. A plush ball had slipped from your baby's grasp, rolling just out of her tiny arm's length. Instead of crying, whining, or verbally signaling one of you to hand it back to her, she just rolled up, albeit slowly, and stood on four wobbly joints, clumsily crawling to where her ball was.
She was so quiet, in fact, that neither you nor Bela heard her. That was the dangerous part. You didn't even know she moved until she was halfway across the floor.
Your eyes snapped down to the speck moving in your bottom vision. “Oh my God?” You gasped, crawling on your own hands and knees to meet your daughter at her new destination, “Bela! She-she moved!”
Bela's mouth was open, her hands frantically finding her trusty notebook, which by now she learned to keep in her pocket, and opened the pages with exaggerated force, eyes scanning the paper like it held secrets.
“She's only six months and 17 days.” She murmured, “Babies don't crawl until seven months, most even eight! She's precisely thirteen days ahead of schedule.”
All you could do was sigh. It was shit like this that made you want to kiss her, but also flush her head in the toilet.
As time went on, it only got worse.
Eight months in, that little demon had started walking. Granted, she could only do it while holding onto something, but still! That's early!
“She's walking before she's talking,” Bela frantically repeated to herself as she wrote in her notebook, her notes looking more like a maniac scientist had written them than a first-time mother.
“Babe! She's walking before she's talking!’
You brought your warm coffee up to your lips, thankful that you could finally have caffeine again without her making you down ten gallons of water immediately afterward. “Yes, dear, I heard you the first nine times.”
“She's developing quicker than an average baby.” Bela's eyes were comically wide, so full of excitement that her daughter had developed the same smart-ass gene Bela had, “At this rate, she could graduate a year early. Maybe two, if she works hard.”
“Darling, she still shits herself.” You shook your head, once again, deciding to just…let your wife do her thing. Her odd little thing.
God forbid the kid talks a month earlier than she's supposed to.
Thankfully that didn't happen, but what did happen, however, was her talking two months earlier than she was supposed to.
Sure enough, at ten months old, ‘mamas’ started to roll their way off of that little tongue. And as nature would have it, there was Bela; writing down the times and dates she said each one. She even started measuring her pronunciation progression.
You weren't sure you could have another baby.
The chance of three Belas sent shivers down your spine.
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
The toddler stage was worse. If that was even possible.
Sure, you had the teething era where there were constant cries, and you had the running away era, but both of those came and went at a steady pace.
And that, for some reason, never left.
It started in the playroom where you overheard Bela and this literal 2 1⁄2 year old arguing over which blocks needed to go where, and what order they needed to be in. Which, somehow, Bela was losing, despite the broken English and 95% babble.
Then you caught them in the garden, both standing the same, legs slightly apart, arms crossed, staring out onto the yard as they seemingly debated whether it needed to be cut or not. Bela said yes, and honestly, you had no clue what baby Bela said. Something along the lines of, “adawadaba” or whatever.
You thought one of them would grow out of it, but when you brought it up in casual conversation with Alcina, she simply laughed in your face until tears warmed her eyes. She didn't even try to lie and tell you it was just a phase.
Deep down, you knew it wasn't.
