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Steph wasn’t sure what she was committing to, but she said, “Yeah, big ones. How big is that?”
Maren shrugged, then dragged a chair over to the pantry.
Okay, so maybe she had done this with her mom, and it would be a fun activity for longer than just a few minutes.
Assembling the ingredients was a bit of a feat because Maren wanted to do everything “by myself,” and Steph was cleaning up more spills than what actually made it into the bowl.
But at least the three-year-old wasn’t whining for her mom anymore. So what if Steph ended up with a little more laundry once the cookies were finished?
“Can you help me roll the cookies into a ball?” she asked, showing Maren how she scooped about a spoonful and rolled it between her hands.
Maren stared at her with delight. Then she plunged her small hands into the bowl of dough.
“Not quite that much,” Steph said as Maren drew out about half the dough, oozing between her fingers. Several dollops plopped onto the floor.
“Oh, whoops.” She guided Maren’s hands back over the bowl. “Just leave the dough in there, I’ll get it out.”
She turned to grab a paper towel to pick up the fallen dough, but before she could do any cleanup, Maren wailed, “I want to do it!”
“You can still do it,” Steph said in the sweetest tone she could muster. “I need to show you how much—”
“No,” she cried, flinging her hands, which only made more dough fly around.
One piece landed square on Steph’s forehead. She released a slow breath. The sooner she got Maren out of the firing range of cookie dough, the better.
“Can you help me turn on the oven?”
“It’s hot!” Maren wailed.
Steph’s stomach tightened as the little girl dissolved into tears. She wasn’t tired—she’d already taken a nap. So it must be missing her mom and the change of routine.
While Maren cried, her arms cradling her head on the table, sounding like her heart had broken into a million pieces, Steph moved the bowl onto the counter out of reach. Then she wet a few paper towels and cleaned off Maren’s hands, then began to wipe up the mess.
Who knew that a three-year-old could cry so loud for so long?
“Maren, sweetie?” Steph laid a hand on the small girl’s heaving shoulder. “Should we go for a walk? Look at the trees and find some bugs?”
“I hate bugs!” she wailed.
Steph knew that wasn’t true, but it seemed that emergency measures were needed. If she were a mother, maybe she’d know the magic trick of soothing a toddler, but Steph wasn’t, and she could only think of one thing. It might be breaking a tiny rule on the list that Dave had given her about limiting screen time. She’d already taken Maren on a long walk earlier that day to visit Pops and check on him.
“Should we watch your pony movie?” Steph asked.
Just then, the front doorbell rang.
“It’s Mommy!” Maren screeched, nearly falling off her chair in her haste to go answer the door.
Steph hurried after her. “You know only adults can answer the door.”
“Mommy!” Maren said, tugging on the door handle, which wouldn’t budge.
Steph peeked through the peephole. Her breath nearly left her. Cal was here … Had he heard the crying and all the commotion? Well, there was no turning back the clock now, and there was no telling Maren it wasn’t her mom on the other side of the door. She’d just have to see for herself.
Steph unlocked the door and pulled it open as Maren wriggled past her. Then stopped in her tracks.
“You’re not my mommy!” she declared, tears still wet on her reddened cheeks.
Credit went to Cal for not staring at the little girl in shock. He glanced at Steph with a raised brown, then he crouched to Maren’s level. “My name is Calvin. What’s your name?”
