Ooh Baby, Baby Part 3. Diana Whitney
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bottle was empty. The baby continued to suck happily, which didn’t bother Travis one whit. Ginny still had some formula left, so he didn’t see any need to take her brother’s bottle away. After all, the little guy was enjoying himself, and it didn’t seem fair to penalize T.J. just because the masculine milk-sucking apparatus was just naturally more powerful than the puny pucker of a baby girl.
Of course, Travis had expected Virginia to feed more demurely than her brother. She was a nibbler, after all, sweet and delicate and ultimately feminine, just like her mama. That’s how it was supposed to be.
But T.J. was a rough-and-tumble boy child, a no-nonsense gulping gobbler. There wasn’t a doubt in Travis’s mind that his namesake was destined to be a three-bite burger man.
Travis couldn’t have been prouder.
The radio on his belt crackled. “What’s going on?” Sue Anne asked. “Are they still eating?”
Travis rested the empty bottle on T.J.’s tummy and reached for the transmission switch. “Ginny’s almost done,” Travis told his sister, then couldn’t resist adding, “T.J. finished up a few minutes ago.”
“Good.” Sue Anne paused. “By the way, you do know enough to take the bottle away as soon as it’s empty so they don’t get air in their tummies, right?”
“Uh, sure, everyone knows that.” Horrified, Travis realized that T.J. had probably siphoned enough air to float a blimp. As he snatched the bottle away, the nipple snapped from startled infant’s mouth with a noisy pop. “Okay, Ginny’s done, too,” he muttered, setting both bottles on the dresser. “Breakfast is officially over.”
“Don’t forget to burp them.”
Travis glared at the radio. “I’m not a complete idiot. I know what to do.”
Actually, he didn’t, but the thinly veiled amusement in Sue Anne’s voice was beginning to grate on his nerves. He rubbed his forehead, tried to jog his memory. Peggy always breast-fed the babies in private, so Travis hadn’t actually witnessed the post-meal burping process. He had, however, seen a similar activity that consisted of holding the infant upright at the shoulder and patting the baby’s back until the anticipated result was obtained. It seemed easy enough when Peggy did it.
But the mere thought of holding a fragile infant against his big, bony chest gave Travis palpitations. What if he patted too hard and broke something? What if a bobbling little head flopped backward? What if…?
T.J. let out a massive wail. Travis wrung his hands, then gently touched the baby’s tummy. It was rock hard and swollen like a balloon. There was no choice now.
Mumbling to himself, Travis slipped one rigid hand under T.J.’s sticky, powder-gummed little head, and the other hand beneath his diapered, pajama-clad bottom, then took a deep breath and lifted.
The baby stopped crying, bobbled his little head around and stared at Travis as if he was also shocked by this unexpected development. “Okay, partner.” Travis shifted awkwardly, managing a couple of tentative pats between the tiny shoulders. “Do your stuff.”
T. J. gurgled, kind of grinned. They smiled a lot now, and not a gassy-type grimace, either. They’d plumped up real pretty over the past couple of months and had learned to sprout honest-to-goodness life-is-swell, happy-to-see-you grins. Travis loved the little critters so much it hurt.
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