Victoria shakes her head. One of the guys on our team is allergic to mustard. Weird one, right? But I’ve been bowled over by how many things the stupid ingredient is in. And it’s not clearly marked on labels.
“Alright, bud. What’s it gonna be?”
My lil man throws his hands over his head like he’s on a freakin’ roller coaster. “Pancaaaaaaaakes!”
“Hell yeah!” I fist pump into the air.
“Hell yeah!” He parrots back to me.
Fuck. My bad.
Ignoring the searing looks ofbothBarnett women, I gulp. Note to self, don’t cuss in front of the tiny human.
“One or two?”
The kid yells two, and both Victoria and her mom answer “One” at the same time.
One it is. I’m not pissing off these women.
Plopping one onto his plate, I offer him the maple syrup, which I quickly regret. He manages to cover his pjs, his toy on the floor, the table, and drown his poor pancake in half a gallon of syrup.
“Shiiiiiiiitake mushrooms.” Rescuing the bottle from him, I ignore the giggles from Victoria and her mom. I’m not going to let this tiny tornado beat me. “Cloth? Wipes?”
Victoria shakes her head. “Just strip him. There’s no coming back from that.”
I strip him down to his underwear, mop up the surplus syrup with his jammies, and move his flooded plate next to the sink. Grabbing a new plate, I fix him another pancake with controlled syrup dispensing, and ask him what toppings he wants.
When he grabs a handful of bacon, I know without question he’s my kid.
Victoria and her mom are already seated, piling their plates with food.
“Pass the juice please, Tori?” Mrs. B says.
The nickname catches me by surprise. Should I be calling her Tori too? I thought she liked her full name, but hearing the short version roll off her mom’s tongue makes me wonder.
“Is it okay if I help out?” I want to be helpful, I want to learn how to do things Victoria has done for the past two years of Wyatt’s life without relief.
At her nod, my heart swells, excitement charging my every breath. When I’ve sliced up Wyatt’s pancake into toddler-sized bites, filled his sippy cup with juice, and made sure there’s no stray syrup dripping onto the floor for the third time, I grab a plate.
Both Victoria and Mrs. B have conservatively filled plates. I’mtorn between being polite and eating as much as I actually want.
“Raffi?” Victoria points her fork at my empty plate.
“Yeah?”
“Eat what you want.”
My unsure glance over at her mom is met with a reassuring nod, so I load that sucker up and go to pancake heaven.
Partway through my pancake-gasm, Wyatt taps my hand to get my attention. When he catches my eye, he presses all four fingers to his thumb on each hand and gives me the sign for “more”’ then rubs his tummy to say “please.”
What the hell? He knows how to sign?
“Don’t get too excited. He only learned a few words at baby classes. Only a couple stuck. More and please are the two he uses a lot.” Victoria reads my confusion like we’ve been together our whole lives.
Victoria’s mom purses her lips, confusion flitting across her face.
“My niece is deaf, so my whole family speaks American Sign Language. It’s actually what I’m studying in school. A bachelor’s degree in ASL and English interpretation. I’d love to be an interpreter someday. Is he allowed more?”
