I smell Christmas cookies! And coffee! And possibly world peace!Gatsby adds, his golden tail whipping everything within a three-foot radius and threatening the lives of several houseplants, a lamp, and my sanity.
And here I thought this evening couldn’t get more ridiculous,Fish mutters, leaping onto the mantle to avoid the chaos.
“I’ve been playing poster boy all day,” Leo announces, handing missing cat flyers to Jasper and me with the weary expression of a deputy who just distributed approximately six thousand pictures of a cat in a pink bow. Jellybean’s sweet face stares up at us, looking impossibly cute and probably plotting world domination from her secret hideout while laughing at our feeble human search efforts. Either that or she’s truly been catnapped. “I figured I’d spread the joy.”
Jasper shakes his head. “Matilda showed up at the precinct this morning demanding we put out an APB on a cat. She wanted FBI involvement, threatened to hire a psychic, and I’m pretty sure she mentioned calling in the National Guard and possibly NASA.”
My heart squeezes. “Poor little Jellybean. Who knows where she could be. This isn’t like her.”
We’ll track her down,Sherlock promises, pausing mid-zoom to look serious for approximately three seconds before getting distracted by his own tail.
That cat knows every hiding spot in Cider Cove,Fish adds.If she’s out there, we’ll find her. If she doesn’t want to be found, good luck to all of us.
“We called in pizzas at the cafe,” Leo says with a smile because, let’s face it, food solves most of life’s problems. “Jasper, want to help me wrangle them? I ordered enough food to feed a small army, which should be perfect for this crowd and our pets’ inevitable begging campaign.”
Jasper transfers Ella to my arms, giving me a look that clearly states,this conversation about your detective activities is absolutely not over, just temporarily postponed until after we feed this circus.
The moment the men disappear out the front door, Emmie’s face lights up with the kind of dangerous enthusiasm that should probably come with a warning label and possibly require a permit from the local authorities.
“Okay,” she says, pulling a suspiciously bulging shopping bag from behind her back. “I may have had a slight educational emergency at the baby store today.”
“Funny you should mention educational emergencies,” I say, retrieving my own bag of shame from behind the door. “Great minds think alike. Terrifyingly, obsessively, probably-need-therapy alike.”
We dump everything onto the coffee table like we’re preparing for baby genius warfare, complete with battle plans, educational ammunition, and what appears to be enough guilt about our parenting choices to stuff a thousand stockings with self-doubt.
Emmie’s haul includes:Baby Einstein’s First Quantum Physics(because apparently, regular physics is for slackers), flashcardspromisingAdvanced Calculus for Infants(with cute little cartoon derivatives), a musical mobile playing three different classical composers simultaneously (creating what sounds like a very cultured nervous breakdown), and something called tiny baby dumbbells that I’m pretty sure violate several child safety regulations and possibly the laws of common sense.
My collection features—Shakespeare for Babies(because nothing says naptime like existential crisis), a yoga mat promising cognitive enhancement through infant meditation (for when your three-month-old needs to find their inner peace and possibly their inner Einstein), a DNA double helix teething ring (because why settle for boring old circles when you can chew on the building blocks of life), and aFuture CEOonesie complete with briefcase rattle that actually makes business-meeting sounds when you squeeze it, including what sounds suspiciously like a very tense merger negotiation.
“Latin language CDs,” Emmie announces proudly, like she’s just discovered the cure for any educational delay. “Because you never know when they might need to translate ancient texts, impress college admissions officers, or possibly communicate with time-traveling Romans.”
“Mathematical equation blocks,” I counter, holding up wooden blocks covered in calculus formulas. “Because regular old ABCs are apparently for underachievers and parents who don’t love their children enough to teach them differential equations.”
We place both babies on the play mat and surround them with our ridiculous genius-making arsenal like we’re creating some kind of educational force field while summoning the spirit of every overachieving parent who ever lived.
Ella and Elliot look up at us with expressions that clearly say,what exactly are you two planning, and should we be concerned about your mental health?
Newsflash: they should be.
“According to this,” Emmie says, consulting the quantum physics manual, “we should start with basic particle theory and work our way up to string theory by naptime.”
“That seems reasonable,” I say, because apparently, my brain has completely abandoned all pretense of rational thought. I crack open Shakespeare with the seriousness of a mother about to deliver a doctoral dissertation to an audience of drooling infants. “To be or not to be—that is the question every three-month-old should be pondering during tummy time.”
Ella immediately becomes fascinated by the cardboard box my purchases came in, completely ignoring the educational materials that cost more than my holiday budget and probably my soul. Elliot tries to eat the corner of the physics book with the determination of a baby who’s decided that knowledge tastes better when consumed literally rather than figuratively.
“Maybe they need more stimulation,” Emmie says, frantically setting up multiple CD players. “How about some simultaneous exposure to Bach, Mozart, and Beethoven for maximum brain development?”
The result sounds like three orchestras havingsimultaneousnervous breakdowns in my living room while also possibly summoning ancient spirits of very confused composers.
Both babies look mildly startled, blink a few times like they’re questioning their parents’ sanity (which they should be), then go back to making faces at each other like they’re having their own private conversation about whether their mothers have completely lost their minds (which they have).
These hoomans have officially lost it,Fish mewls from her perch on the mantle.
The babies look perfectly fine to me,Sherlock adds.
I think the babies are smarter than their mothers,Cinnamon adds helpfully.
That’s not exactly a high bar to clear right now,Gatsby points out with brutal honesty.
