Author's Note: Hello everybody!
I'm sorry for the delays!
I should have been leaving more frequent posts, but I have been busy. Apparently, my family thinks that I should not stay "coop up inside of my apartment" and I should spend weekends doing "fun" things.
Apparently for a lot of people, shopping at Home Depot, flea markets and IKEA is fun...
This is the second chapter of "Skin To Skin". In this chapter, it is not a lemon, even though there is a mention of sex.
By the way, there is a few more chapters to this story, because this story just happens to be a mogwai that was wet.
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"MOMMY!"
The sound of Rashida's voice had frightened me from my slumber. I thought she was hurt and then I thought that one of the other kids were injured. I sat upright in my bed. I was so alarmed that I didn't know that my daughter was straddling my hips. My baby girl let out a squeal of fright as she fell backwards. I managed to snag one of my baby's forearms and held on tightly. Her descent had come to a stop when she was a few inches away from the mattress.
"Wwwwwhhhhoooaaaa," she squealed as she floated above my blanket-covered legs. Her big, adorable brown eyes were wide while the corners of her pouty mouth was curved upwards into a smile.
"Are you okay?" I asked my six year-old daughter, who was the youngest out of my nine children.
Rashida chuckled and smiled. She displayed the gap in her mouth that was caused by the lack of her front two teeth. "Yeah," she laughed.
I pulled my baby into an upright position. I wrapped my arms around her small frame and I gave her a tight hug. I buried my face into the curve of her neck and I inhaled her scent. My nose picked up the scent of maple syrup and pancake batter. I listened to my daughter's squeals and coos. She was ticklish. I removed my face from its resting place and then I proceeded on placing several kisses on her forehead. Rashida squirmed and squealed.
"Mommy!" she squealed. "Mommy, stop it!"
I stopped and stared down at my child. "Aaaaaalllllllll righty then," I announced with a chuckle. My bedroom was saturated with her laughter. I released her. She was free for a few seconds before she spoke.
"Okay, do it again!" she demanded.
I grabbed onto her again and did the same thing, which was frantically kiss her face. Like before, Rashida laughed, squealed and fidgeted throughout my act of silliness.
"Mommy, stop it!"
I complied with her request. A few seconds later, she asked me to do it again. With a smile on my face and a sense of glee in my spirit, I kissed her face but I tickled her sides as well. We ended up doing this exchange four more times. By the time we were finished, we were both winded. I had returned to my original prone position in my bed. My daughter, on the other hand, ended up lying in her daddy's part of the bed. I watched my little cherub roll onto her right side and then prop her head, neck and shoulders up with the help of her right hand. She stared up at me with her big, round eyes that displayed feistiness and curiosity.
"Mommy, are you going to ask me why I am here?"
I already knew why she was here, in my bedroom. It was my birthday. For every year, my husband and my oldest children make me a pancake breakfast and later on, in the evening, I will be presented with a birthday cake after our supper. It was a tradition that was formed when my oldest child, Gail, was a toddler. At that particular time, we were living in a one-bedroom apartment. I was pregnant with our second child, our first son and I was also the breadwinner of the family. Malachi was unemployed and he played the role of 'stay-at-home dad'. My birthday had rolled around and he felt bad that he couldn't afford to buy me a nice gift. So, he decided to make me a birthday gift, which was breakfast.
I rolled onto my left side. I propped my head into my left hand and I stared down at my baby, my little Baby Sweetheart. "Tell me why you are here."
Rashida brushed a lock of her hair from out of her view. "Cause Daddy is making you breakfast. And I am here to make sure that you don't ruin the surprise," she informed me.
"Oh," I gasped. "I gotcha, so did Daddy tell you when I should come downstairs?"
"Daddy said..." Her little left hand scratched her right wrist. "On the clock, when the big hand is on the eleven number and the little hand is on the ten number."
I turned around slightly and glanced at the electronic alarm clock that was on my nightstand. The face of the clock read '11:00 AM'.
'All right, I have ten minutes before we go.'
I rolled back around and stared at my daughter. My eyes drifted to my youngest child and I noticed her head, in particular, her hair. I knew that my eyes bulged in mild amazement and full-blown amusement. I knew that her current hairstyle was the end result of her father's follicle handiwork. Rahsida's copper-colored hair looked like an absolute mess. Her shoulder-length, kinky hair was styled with an array of ponytails. Each of the ten ponytails varied in size and was adorned various decorations. Malachi placed some ponytails with plastic barrettes and others with silk ribbons. Some of her ponytails held braids and the other ones were loose. The ponytails that were braided were sticking straight out.
"Baby Sweetheart, did Daddy do your hair today?"
Rashida sighed as if I just asked her to tell me about her heavy burdens. Her doe-shaped eyes became downcast. "Yup," she said to me, sounding forlorn. I laughed so much that my face grew hot and my cheeks were sore. It was so adorable and funny.
My daughter and I cuddled with each other for another eight minutes.
"All right baby, we have to go downstairs now," I announced to my daughter as I pulled back the layers of bed linen from my legs.
"Okay Mommy," she said to me as she crawled to the foot of my king-sized canopy bed.
I climbed out of my bed and I walked over to the other side of the bedroom. As I walked to the dresser, I noticed my reflection was in the mirror. My eyes focused on the bare, chocolate thighs and then the large shirt that I wore. I silently thanked the Lord for having the common sense to dress in my pajamas again, after my husband gave me my first birthday gift, a few hours ago. I walked over to the dresser and approached a drawer that contained my pajamas.
"Ooooh Mommy, you have waves on your thighs!" Rashida said to me. I looked at my daughter. She pointed at my legs. I knew that she was referring to the cellulite that decorated my thighs.
'Great,' my brain groaned. 'Today I turned forty-eight years old and now my baby just pointed out my cellulite.'
"Yes, I have waves on my thighs, Baby Sweetheart," I told her with a broad smile. I turned back to the drawer and pulled out a pair of baggy, Sponge-Bob Square Pants pajama bottoms. I shut the drawer closed and then stood up straight. I slipped the pajama pants on. I turned to face my child. "I have waves on my legs baby because I am old."
"Mommy, you're not old," Rashida informed me.
"Awww," I moaned as I gushed from her act of flattery. I walked up to the foot of the bed. I stood in front of my daughter. "Thank you."
"You're welcome, Mommy."
I cupped her small, round face in my hands. She stared up at me. In her dark brown, doe-shaped eyes, I saw her admiration for me. Abruptly, I felt a sensation that was overwhelming. A thrill ran through my body and it caused my stomach to tremble. My cheeks flushed and my heart beaten with a great ferocity. I thought that my esophagus tightened up. My eyes watered as I gazed down at my child's face. Unbeknownst to her, she gifted me with one of the great gifts that a parent can receive from a child.
A few minutes later, we both headed for the first level of the house, for the kitchen. As soon as I exited the bedroom and entered the hallway, I was greeted by the usual sounds of nature. For me, 'the sounds of nature' consisted of the television playing along with the stereo system in the living room, the kids shouting at each other, the sounds of the dog barking or the cat screeching, my husband's voice, the crazy sound effects of a random child's toy and the usual declaration of "I'm gonna tell Mom!"
I sighed a deep breath. 'Boy, I remember when this house used to be quiet all of the time. But then, we decided to have seven more children because we thought that they were going to be easy rearing just like the first two kids. Ha, how silly were we?'
Two minutes later, Rashida and I entered the gladiator ring that used to be my kitchen. I called it the 'gladiator ring' because my sons Ian and Nicholas tend to play-fight inside of there. In fact, my twelve year-old and my ten year-old sons were grappling, when I entered the kitchen. They were fighting in the space that was in between the refrigerator and the kitchen counter space.
"Hey, hey, hey..." I walked over to where my two children were fighting while I still carried my five year-old in my arms. I gave each of their limbs a nudge with my left foot. "Both of you stop it right now! If you want to play fight, go in the basement!"
I listened to my boys laugh in response before I watched them untangle themselves from each other. They stood up from the scuffed-up, green linoleum floor and then ran towards the door that led into the basement. A few seconds later, I listened to their pairs of feet scramble down the stairs into the sublevel of the house. Once I was assured that they were downstairs, I turned my attention to my other kids, who sat on the opposite side of the kitchen. My kids were sitting at the dining table and eating their breakfast which consisted of bowls of cold cereal. It was then, when I noticed the odor of burnt pancake batter floating through the air.
"Hey," I said to the kids. I noticed six pairs of eyes focused on me. My children stopped chatting with each other and eating just to stare at me. "Where's my birthday breakfast?"
My oldest son, M.J. said to me "Dad burned the pancakes." I stared at the younger, spitting image of my husband and I smirked at him. "What?" He asked me with his gray eyes wide and with a mouthful of Cheerios. "Dad burned your food—
"And we don't have any more pancake mix!" Dahlia reported to me as she kneeled on the wooden bar stool that was in front of the island countertop. She was my seven year-old daughter.
I asked the small tribe that was my progeny, "So where is your dad now?" I gave Rashida a kiss on her forehead before I placed her down. "Did he go to the store?"
"Ma, you sound like you really want those pancakes," my oldest child, Gail told me with a smirk on her face.
"Well damn it, I do want my pancakes," I told them all. My voice sounded whiny. I knew that I sounded like a spoiled brat that was about to have a temper tantrum, but I didn't care. It was my birthday and I believed that I could act like an idiot if I wanted to. "It's important to me."
"AAAAAAWWWWW," all four of my oldest smart-assed kids said to me. My face contorted into a snarl which caused the kids to laugh. I wanted to flip them the bird, but I knew that Dahlia and Rashida was still in the room. Yes, I am one of those parents.
