6. Janta

CHAPTER 6

Janta

B eing at Rayna's house is incredibly intimidating. At first, I sit back and watch the effortless way she takes care of Lily. It was almost as if I'm showing up for a big interview. A big interview for a job that I'm slowly realizing I have absolutely no qualifications for..

It just seems to come so naturally for Rayna, and I'd be lying if I said that didn't bother me a bit. I don't like feeling incompetent, as if I'm underperforming.

I've fought tooth and nail and studied my ass off to get where I am today. But there's no training manual dedicated to how to be a father but it sure as hell would be helpful if there were.

As I walk through the door of Rayna's small, warmly lit living room, a flurry of emotions overtakes me. It's like stepping into a whole different world—one where I'm not just Janta, the rough around the edges executive, but a dad, a role I'm still trying to wrap my head around.

Rayna's house is like a place of relentless learning and subtle discoveries. Each visit peels back a layer of the parenting mystery, revealing complexities I had never expected.

The weight of my inexperience presses down on me, filling me with anxiety. What if I don't get this right? What if I fail Lily?

Yet, alongside this fear, there's a budding excitement—an eagerness to embrace whatever comes my way.

Watching Rayna with Lily, with her effortless grace and intuitive understanding, both intimidates and inspires me. There's a rhythm to her routine, a melody to the way she speaks, soothes, and smiles that I find mesmerizing.

Rayna watches as I pick Lily up from the bassinet on my own for the first time, noticing the way her tiny frame feels so fragile in my massive hands. Her encouraging nod from across the room calms me.

"You're doing fine, Janta," she says, her voice a blend of reassurance and patience. It's more than just about holding Lily. It's about holding onto the belief that I can do this.

Each task I learn is like a minor victory, a step closer. I stumble often, fumbling with baby clothes and second-guessing every decision, filling me with frustration, but I'm learning that fatherhood is less about perfection and more about presence.

Diaper changes, however, are an art form—a delicate dance of tabs and wipes and surprisingly agile maneuvers, none of which come naturally to my inexperienced hands.

Today, as I lay Lily down on the changing mat, her little legs kicking air and a curious gurgle escaping her lips, the familiar surge of incompetence swells inside me. My hands, large and used to the firm shake of business deals or the steady grip on a briefcase, seem absurdly oversized for such delicate work.

Rayna's couch is a silent spectator to my struggles and offers me a view of her watching us. I can feel her gaze on me as I work, and I focus on getting this right. I don't want her to see me make a fool of myself, but there's something else beneath the surface triggered by her blue eyes on me.

"Lift her legs higher. It makes it easier," Rayna advises, her voice laced with encouragement rather than criticism.

The warmth of her voice only adds to the awareness I have of her presence. It's supportive, I know mostly for Lily's well being, but when she places her hand on mine to show me, I'm startled by the intimacy.

I adjust my hold, trying to mimic the effortless way Rayna seems to manage these things. The diaper's sticky tabs seem to mock m3, sticking everywhere but in the right spot. Finally, after a struggle that feels too long, the diaper sits somewhat correctly. It's not perfect—the slight skew tells that tale—but it's on.

Rayna claps softly. "See? You're getting the hang of it," she says, her voice remaining warm and reassuring.

Each of these moments, each small task I learn, helps build within me the confidence that I feel in my office. With Rayna's patient guidance, I'm learning that my attempts don't matter as much as the effort I put into them.

It's about being here, fully present, ready to embrace each challenge, no matter how small or how awkwardly I handle it. As I scoop Lily into my arms, now freshly diapered and cooing happily, a sense of accomplishment settles over me.

She then decides it's time I master the basics: holding, burping, and soothing Lily.

"Support her head like this," Rayna instructs, gently adjusting my arms as I try to cradle Lily. Her tiny head feels impossibly small in my palm, and I'm acutely aware of how fragile she is. Rayna's hands guide mine, her touch reassuring. "There, like that. You've got her."

It's a simple gesture, but the confidence that flows from Rayna's encouragement makes me believe I can do this. Holding Lily becomes less about my fear of doing something wrong and more about the incredible feeling of closeness. Her little body is warm and trusting against my chest.

Next, Rayna shows the proper way to burp Lily after her feeding, a task that seems fraught with potential for error. "You want to pat her back gently but firmly," she explains, showing me with precise, rhythmic pats. "It helps to relieve any discomfort from gas."

I mimic her technique, surprised at the satisfaction I feel when I successfully burp Lily, her small burp sounding like a victory in the quiet room.

But perhaps the most challenging lesson is learning how to soothe Lily when she's fussy. Rayna shares different techniques, from crooning a lullaby to gently rocking and walking around the room.

"Each baby is different. You'll learn what she likes best," Rayna says with a smile. I try each method as I work to decipher Lily's needs. When I finally find a rhythm that calms her, the relief is palpable.

As Rayna watches me slowly gain confidence, her eyes reflect not just pride but a deepening respect. It's clear she appreciates my efforts, clumsy though they may be. Each lesson not only builds my skills but also deepens my connection with Lily. I'm not just learning to perform tasks. I'm learning to be her father, to be someone she can rely on.

As the sun dips below the horizon, we start Lily's bedtime routine.

"There's something I've been meaning to ask you," I start, trying to carefully avoid my usual gruffness. "Can we adjust her schedule? Just a bit later so I can have more time with her after work?" I ask as Rayna is bent over Lily's tiny bathtub.

Rayna's expression shifts subtly, clearly concerned. "Janta, I understand you want more time with her, but it's crucial for Lily to have a consistent bedtime. It helps her sleep better, and it's an easier day for me the following day," she explains.

The air between us charges with tension. I feel a flicker of frustration. It seems like a perfectly reasonable request on my part, yet Rayna's refusal feels like a wall I can't climb.

"But isn't it also important for her to spend time with her father?" I counter, my voice edging toward insistence and demanding.

"We both want what's best for her," Rayna replies, her voice steady. "Keeping her routine stable is what she needs right now. We can find other ways for you to spend more time with her."

The logic in her words is undeniable, and as the initial wave of frustration ebbs, I see the wisdom in her stance. It isn't about what is convenient for me. It's about what is best for Lily, but that doesn't make this any easier.

"Fine, " I concede, wincing at the sharpness of my answer. "Let's keep the routine as it is. I'll figure out a way to manage my schedule better," I add, hoping to soften the blow evident in Rayna's expression.

Rayna's expression softens slightly, and she nods before turning back to Lily whose kicks are splashing water everywhere.

The disagreement, though brief and tense, ends on a note of mutual understanding. I conceded, recognizing that Rayna's experience and insight into Lily's needs were invaluable. In that moment, I learned another aspect of parenting: sometimes, it's about setting aside your desires for the greater good of your child.

As I sit here now, in the quiet hum of the living room, watching her gently rock Lily to sleep, I realize these moments are precious. They are the building blocks of a relationship not just with my daughter but with Rayna as well, as we navigate this co-parenting journey.

With each visit, the mix of anxiety and anticipation gives way to a deeper commitment—a resolve to keep showing up, to keep learning, and to be a part of Lily's life in every way I can.

As I become more involved in Lily's life and witness Rayna's parenting firsthand, I've started to see her not just as a mother, but as a formidable individual in her own right.

I adjust my own priorities, my work schedule, even my long-term plans, to ensure I am contributing positively to the family dynamic we were building.

This newfound respect also changes how I approach our discussions. I try to listen more, not just to respond, but to understand. She handles my frustrations and outbursts with ease, despite the abrasives of my nature.

I seek her advice, value her opinions, and make sure she knows her efforts are not going unnoticed.

Seeing her strength and dedication inspires me to match that commitment, ensuring that Lily feels as loved and cared for as possible. Rayna's resilience, her ability to handle every challenge with a poised determination, is not something I've only come to admire but also aspire to emulate. Through this journey, our relationship, built on the foundation of parenting, is blossoming into a partnership.