having to carry around kess's huge offspring... i just know ur back would be aching
smaller reader hinted at? i guess? but just shorter heâs a unit. thatâs what michael calls him. the unit. your big, bright-eyed, babbling, unbelievably chubby little boy who looks like someone carved him out of cream and cherub dreams and then decided to make him a linebacker. eighteen months old and built like heâs got a scholarship waiting.
heâs so tall already itâs borderline unfair. his legs are these chunky columns with dimples at the knees, his arms look like overstuffed sausages, and his cheeksâgod, his cheeksâare so round they threaten to swallow his eyes when he grins. and he does grin. constantly. with a mouth full of baby teeth and dimples so deep they could store snacks. michael says he gets that from you, the impossible, unstoppable smiling. you roll your eyes, but you know itâs true.
he talks. so much. the house is never quiet. heâs not content to babble nonsense either, noâhe wants conversation. heâs got a toddlerâs command of grammar and a drunk poetâs sense of pacing. he points at the cat and goes socks eat? socks food? socks nap? socks meow? in one breath. heâll narrate entire diaper changes. poop. big poop. eww. youâre mortified, michael is in tears laughing.
and he loves to be carried. thatâs the kicker. he can walk. he can totter-run, in fact, with that off-balance, chubby-wobble that makes your heart lurch every time he lists to one side like a ship in a gale. but the second heâs bored or tired or wants youâup go the hands. mama. up. mama up mama up! and he will not stop until you haul his big wriggly self onto your hip.
he doesnât understand that heâs huge. or maybe he does and he doesnât care. he molds to you like heâs still a newborn, arms slung around your neck, big soft head pressed to your shoulder, drooling contentedly onto your shirt. your back aches constantly. michael tries so hard not to laugh when he catches you adjusting him with a wince. you need help? he asks, smirk in full effect. you hiss at him like a cat but he just steps in behind you, hands bracketing your waist, making sure you donât topple under your own baby.
sometimes you do hand him off. michael takes him so easily, settling him on one broad arm like heâs a sack of flour. your son immediately pats michaelâs face, pokes his nose, yells dada! nose! dada big! mama small! with all the earnest observation of a miniature scientist. michael snorts. yeah buddy, i know. he kisses your hair over your sonâs head while you glare at them both.
but you never say no for long. not when he lifts those arms and looks at you with those big brown eyes that are unmistakably michaelâs. not when he says mama up? in that sweet, hopeful lilt that makes your heart twist. you always lean down, groaning and muttering, and gather him up anyway. he clings immediately. wraps his legs around you like a koala. nestles in. starts rambling against your ear.
bird. big bird. blue. blue bird. mama see? yes baby, mama sees. cat nap. ranger nap. mama nap? maybe later. no nap. okay. cookie. nice try.
heâs so damn soft. all that baby chub is warm and pliable under your hands. you squish his thigh absently while you carry him, fingers sinking into the pudge. he giggles and kicks. sometimes he cups your face in his sticky little palms and presses his slobbery mouth to your cheek in a kiss so heartfelt it makes your eyes sting. mama lub you.
and you melt. you absolutely dissolve. you squeeze him so tight he squeals, and you donât even care. you bury your face in his hairâwild and soft and a little too long because you canât bear to trim those perfect curls. he smells like syrup and baby shampoo and sunshine.
michael catches you like that all the time. arms straining, hip jutting out to support the toddler behemoth, your face buried in him while he babbles happily. michael will lean in the doorway, arms crossed, smiling so wide itâs almost smug. need help? he asks, knowing you wonât say yes. you scowl at him over your sonâs fuzzy head.
but sometimes he doesnât ask. sometimes he just comes over and wraps those big arms around both of you from behind. cages you in, rests his chin on your shoulder, one giant hand joining yours on your sonâs back. your son chirps dada! and tries to twist around in your arms to grab his nose.
and there you are. all three of you. warm and close and tangled up. your back might be screaming. your hip might feel like itâs going to pop. your son might be hollering dada big! mama small! in your ear like itâs the funniest thing in the world.
but michael kisses your temple, your sonâs curls, your jaw.
mama perfect, he murmurs so only you can hear. best mama.
and you sigh, even as your eyes prick. because itâs true. you wouldnât trade this for anything. not for all the relief in the world. because your big baby boy loves you so fiercely. and so does michael. and youâre exactly where you want to be.
