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Knowing my daughter won’t always fit in my arms like this kills me.
That’s when Katie’s face contorts and turns red. A beat later, I catch a whiff of something bad.
Something else that also kills me? The fact that Katie still isn’t fully potty trained.
“Katie,” I say slowly. “Did you poop in your pants?”
Katie nods. “Yeah, I did.”
“But you did a great poop in the potty earlier,” Maren is saying. “Here, let’s go get you cleaned up?—”
I wave her away with my free hand. “I got it. C’mon, koala bear, you’re going to need some fresh undies for dinner.”
Katie tells me all about her day with Maren while I do poop duty in the powder room off the kitchen. She’s talking a mile a minute, so eager to get back to playing with her new nanny that she literally takes off before I can put her costume back on.
“Sounds like y’all are having the best time ever,” I say as we head back into the kitchen.
“Can Karen watchSuperKittieswith me after dinner?”
Can’t help but grin. “Maren. You just had it right.”
“But since we’re friends,” Maren says, “You can call me Mare.”
“Mare.” Katie says. “I like that.”
“Good,” I say. “If you eat your vegetables, y’all can watchSuperKittiestogether.”
I head back to the kitchen to find Maren folding up my now-empty reusable grocery bag.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I put everything away. Cold stuff doesn’t keep long in this heat.”
I blink. The nanny we had prior was helpful, but notthishelpful. “Okay. Great. Thank you.” I clear my throat. “Dinner should be ready in half an hour or so.”
Maren gives me a thumbs up, smiling when she sees Katie running after me in just her Peppa Pig underwear. “What can I help with?”
Exactly the question I always ask when I’m at someone’s house for a meal. Maren’s mama raised her right.
My need for alcohol becomes acute.
“You and Katie keep doing what you’re doing.”
I don’t usually drink whiskey during the week. But I’m suddenly craving it, so I grab a bottle of Jack Daniels from my bar, maple syrup, and a couple of lemons from the fridge, and mix up a very strong whiskey sour.
There’s still plenty left in the shaker after I pour myself a glass. I glance at Maren.
Weird if I offer her a drink? Weird if I don’t? I feel like she could use a cocktail too. What she said about school has me thinking she’s stressed out.
And yeah, drinking whiskey alone feels fucking depressing.
I hold up the shaker. “Can I pour you a cocktail, Karen?”
Maren laughs, the sound happy and real, and I have to gulp my own drink in an attempt to ignore the way my dick twitches.
“Well, I’m working right now, so . . .”
“You can keep working after one drink. If you want a drink, of course. I love my little koala more than life itself, but the days are long. Cocktail hour is... important.”
Maren bites her lip. I think of Jesus. Spreadsheets. Surfing in December.
