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“Can you spell it?” Perhaps if I can use the internet to look it up, I will understand.
She sighs as though I am an imbecile. “No, Mr. Mommy’s Friend. I don’t learn to spell until first grade.”
I assume that she is not in this first grade.
Luna blinks up at me again, her eyes misty. “Please. I’m so hungry and I can’t find Nonna Francesca, and Mommy is sleeping. I don’t want to wake her up.”
Her little voice is plaintive.
I sigh. “Come, Luna. We will endeavor to make this sandwich together.”
When she offers me her little hand, I’m surprised, but I take it.
“Okay!” she chirps.
In the kitchen, I discover through an English language search that ‘grilled cheese’ is what my child is trying to say. I alsodiscover that it is merely a combination of butter, bread, and cheese, that one toasts on the stove.
Luna kicks her feet as she stares at me.
I pretend not to look at her. “Okay. So. What does your mommy do first?”
She shrugs. “I dunno.”
Yes. The five-year-old child will probably not be of great help. Surreptitiously, I glance at my phone.
“Why are you looking at your phone?”
“To see the instructions.”
“What instructions?”
“For the sandwich.”
“Everyone knows how to make a grilly cheese,” Luna sniffs with an arrogance that, unfortunately, I do believe she inherited from me.
I resist the urge to ask her if she, in fact, knows, and if she does, why she is not helping.
She is a child.
I can figure out how to make a toasted cheese sandwich.
I spread the butter on the bread. “Do you often eat this food?” I ask Luna.
“Yup!” she says, the noise bubbly. “Mommy wants me to eat vegetables too, but broccoli is nasty.”
I wince, putting the bread onto a pan, and turning on the gas. The burner lights, giving me an intense sense of satisfaction. “And so we begin,” I say as I put the slices of bread, with cheese between, on the pan.
“You talk silly,” Luna giggles.
I turn and wave at her. “You say this to the one who feeds you?”
“Silly,” she giggles.
I smile. I enjoy making Luna laugh, and for a minute, I just enjoy the sight of her in my kitchen. Smiling. Laughing.
Perhaps I linger too long, because after a moment, she frowns.
“It smells funny,” she wrinkles her tiny nose.
