“Whoa,” Toby said, holding a toaster waffle in one hand and a dinosaur in the other, “Are you going on a date?”
“No,” I replied, pouring cereal like I hadn’t already planned out how to climb a carpenter at a job site.
Emmie narrowed her eyes, “Then why do you smell good?”
“It’s perfume, Em.” I deadpanned, “I always wear perfume.”
“No,” She argued back like a stubborn mini-me. “You usually smell like chicken fingers and beer.”
“Okay, wow. We’re done with this conversation,” I said, grabbing her hairbrush before she could hide it. “Sit. Brush. Eat.”
As soon as I was done with her hair, stupidly I turned my back and tried to pack their lunches, fooled into thinking they’d stay on track doing what I asked of them.
That was when I heard it.
The sound of a hockey stick dragging across the tile floor. I turned just in time to see Emmie wielding her mini goalie stick like a sword, spinning through the kitchen in her socks while holding Toby’s metal lunch box like a puck.
“Emmie Blake?—”
“It’s stick-handling practice! I need to improve my agility in confined spaces! Saw said so!” She dropped the lunch box and started passing it back and forth.
“You’re going to improve your face planting when you crash into the dishwasher!” I snapped with my hands on my hips.
Too late.
Her socks slipped, her balance wobbled, and down she went. The lunch box flew across the kitchen like a twirling top, sending Toby’s day-old goldfish spraying across the floor like confetti at a parade.
“I regret nothing,” she yelled as she hit the ground, completely unbothered.
Meanwhile, Toby sat calmly at the table, spooning cereal into his mouth like it was all just another Tuesday morning in the Blake household. Glancing over at me, he shrugged and said, “I think she’s going to make it to the pros.”
We finally madeit to the car with only one meltdown, mine; one time-out, Emmie’s; and a full outfit change, Toby’s, after Emmie flung maple syrup at him with a spoon for being adweeb.
Heaven help me, I wasn’t going to survive the teenage years.
By the time I pulled into their elementary school drop-off line, I felt like I’d run a triathlon in high heels, and the sunshiny confidence I’d felt when I woke up was fading.
Fast.
I reached back to check that Toby had his backpack as Emmie jumped from the car with barely asee ya later, but he surprised me and grabbed my hand, holding it tight.
“Hey, Mama?”
“Yeah, baby?” I turned to look at him in his booster seat, all gap-toothed grin and syrup-sticky cheeks.
“You’re really pretty today.” My heart cracked wide open, and my shoulders relaxed as his warm eyes held mine. “And you look happy too.”
I blinked hard, “I do?”
He nodded, “I think it’s because you’re letting people help you. Like for real. Not just pretend stuff. You should keep doing that.”
I blinked again, harder.
“Where did you learn to say things like that?” I whispered.
He shrugged. “You.” He opened the door and started to climb out, then paused. “I’m glad you’re smiling again.”
Then he was gone; backpack bouncing, shoes untied, hoodie crooked, and I sat there for a full minute, staring through the windshield with tears prickling the corners of my eyes and somethinghugeblooming in my chest.
