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“I have to poach him chicken to go along with his food or he won’t eat. I’d run out after feeding him breakfast this morning, so I decided to make some more over here.”
Giving my mother a dumbfounded look, I overdramatically reach for the refrigerator door and grab the container. “That dog is more spoiled than I ever was.”
“Oh, hush. He’s the only baby I have left at home.”
Caleb places his hands on his hips. “Gammy, I thought Unca Roger lived at your house.”
I snort.
“Well, he’s not a baby. He’s a mooch.” She turns to me. “I think I’ve put up with the Peter Pan Syndrome long enough. When I get back from my cruise, he needs to fly.”
“I want to be Peter Pan.” Caleb squeals.
“No, you don’t. Not this kind,” I scold. Turning back around to follow Mom to the door, I notice Truitt is sitting in the corner of the den with his back to us.Uh oh. That’s never good.I dash over to where he’s sitting and spin him toward me to see he’s chewing on a teething ring. “When did you get him this?”
Mom looks over her shoulder. “Oh, that’s Ted E.’s.”
I gag as I pull the dog toy from Truitt’s mouth, and swat whoever is pulling on the back of my shirt. Standing to hand the toy off to Mom, I feel the tug again and look down to see Myla pointing toward the stove.
Black smoke is wafting into the air while the marble backsplash of my kitchen counter is covered in tomato sauce. It looks like someone is trying to light a bad tie dye project on fire.
“Oh, gosh.” Sprinting over to the stove, I grab an oven mitt and throw open the oven door just as the fire alarm begins to wail. “Myla, honey. Go open the back windows.”
“Oh, Ted E. No!” My mother cries as I turn to see her white capri pants turning yellow. “It’s never a good idea to have him in the same room with you if you’re cooking, Jillian.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Have you got this? I need to get home and clean up before bridge.”
“Yes,” I snap, irritated. Once the door closes behind her, I ask, “Who wants Luigi’s?”
“Me!” Caleb yells as Myla bounces up and down.
Deciding to leave cleaning up the kitchen until later, I changed into a yellow sundress and strappy sandals before getting everyone buckled into the car and heading to our favorite Italian restaurant. Luigi’s is a staple in Hanover. Good food at affordable prices. The portion sizes are quite large, so we always have leftovers. And between pizza and pasta, I bring home three happy kids every single time.
“Ah, welcome. How many?”
“Four, please.” There’s simply no way to describe the aromas in here. It’s a mixture of tomato, garlic, fresh bread, and contentment. If comfort had a smell, it would be Luigi’s.
“Right this way.” I follow the kind young man dressed in black pants and a crisp white button-down shirt as he leads us to a booth along the far wall. Myla and Caleb slide in on side opposite me and before I can ask about a highchair, another server is placing one at the end of the table.
“Thank you.”
“Of course, Miss. Do you need kids’ menus?”
“Yes, three please.” The menus typically come with crayons and have a coloring activity and puzzles on the back. It thankfully gives them something to focus on besides ‘how much longer’ it’s taking for their dinner to arrive. “And we’ll all have water.”
“Grazie.”
The server walks away, and I manage to get my squirmy child buckled into his highchair just as a young woman with long, dark hair deposits three kids’ menus and crayons on the table. They each scramble for a coloring sheet, and I move Truitt’s closer to him. “Would you like an appetizer?”
“Spaghetti!” Caleb calls out with his hands high in the air.
Myla nods in agreement.
“Good, that works. I’ll just share some of yours with your little brother,” I add as I reach into the diaper bag for Truitt’s bib. There’s always more than we can possibly eat.
“Your water, Miss.” The server distributes them, and I grab Tru’s sippy cup. When I turn back around, the bib is no longer around his neck.
