I ran my fingers through my hair, then stopped, remembering Molly saying I looked like a mad scientist when I’d done the same motion the day before.
Asking her to watch Chloe was supposed to have alleviated some of the stress I’d been carrying, but the jolt of unexpected attraction I felt toward her and the ease with which she had fit herself into our home caused my stomach to clench.
“Wanna hear a joke?” Chloe munched into a piece of garlic bread.
“I do.” Molly served Chloe some plain spaghetti then handed me the pasta bowl.
“Why did the snail cross the road?”
“Why?” I asked.
“To go snaily fast.” She slapped the table and threw her head back laughing. Molly and I gaped at each other. Her cheek twitched with suppressed laughter, and I felt my own smile spreading.
Chloe soaked up the attention. “Wanna hear another one?”
“Sure.” Couldn’t be any worse that the last joke.
“Knock, knock.”
Molly responded, “Who’s there?”
“Chicken.”
“Chicken who?”
“Chicken on your head!” More table slapping. Three more jokes followed where the punchline always ended with some kind of animal on our heads.
Some of the tension drained away from my corded shoulders. Life, along with my daughter’s jokes, might never make any sense. Didn’t mean I couldn’t roll with the punches and laugh along anyway.
7
Molly
After a week of working for Doctor Ben Reed, I felt like I’d learned a few valuable lessons, the first of which was that our medical system is bonkers. I mean, completely and utterly insane. Set aside the whole issue with big pharma and insurance and everything, which I won’t even think about because Nicole would sense my brain waves and get on one of her soap boxes.
But seriously, do medical professionals not read their own studies? I mean, I don’t have the letters MD after my name, but teachers notoriously tell their students to make sure they get enough sleep and a good breakfast before a test. Because sleep is essential for cognitive abilities. Pretty sure I’ve seen lack of Zs symptoms compared to those of a person having over-indulged in alcohol consumption. I don’t know about the next guy, but I don’t want someone who has the same functions of a person who’s pounded back one too many to give me a medical work up.
How can anyone function to the best of their ability when they’ve worked thirty hours straight? It makes no sense to me whatsoever.
But beyond the fact that I now have even more of a reason to reserve hospital visits as my last medical resort, I’ve learned a few rules about caring for younger children. The first rule of childcare is: you do not talk about childcare. Oh wait, that’s fight club, and I’m not Brad Pitt. Honestly, sometimes being a caretakerfeelslike going three rounds, wanting to tap out, but knowing you’ve got to stay in the ring.
Any ideals I had about what kind of mother I would be—limited-to-no screen time, enforce a balanced diet with no fast food whatsoever, never give in to a tantrum, etc.—have been shattered in a matter of days…and I’m not even a mother! But maybe balance is better anyway. That’s what I’m telling myself, otherwise I think my sanity might start to be an issue.
The familiar whirr of the serger relaxed me, and I took a deep breath in and let it out. Today was Ben’s day off, so it was my day off as well. I felt kind of embarrassed by how much I needed the break. There were millions of stay-at-home moms and dads out there who never got a day off. Shoot, they never even got to clock out or take a lunch hour. And Ben. He wasn’t at the hospital right now, but he sure as shootin’ didn’t get to sit back and relax. And if anything, Chloe may suck more energy out of him than a full ward of patients.
“What are you working on, Mol?” Amanda set her cell phone down beside her. Being a social media guru—not her professional title, but that’s what her job boiled down to—we’d all gotten used to her need to have her phone attached to her hand.
I ended the row of coverstitch and snipped the thread. The serger was nice because it used four bobbins of thread compared to the sewing machine’s one. Plus, it trimmed and enclosed the seams all in one pass.
I held up the material in my hand. A cream-colored cotton blend with cute little kitties all over it. “I’m making matching dresses for Chloe and her American Girl doll.”
“How’s that going, by the way? Being a nanny?”
“If she survived a trip to the grocery store, then I’d say she’s got this thing in the bag.” Nicole wiggled her eyebrows from her spot on the floor. “See what I did there? Store. Bag.”
Betsy groaned. “Someone call the pun police, please.”
I laughed at Nicole. “Good one.”
