“Should Ella be sitting up by now?” I panic, consulting milestone charts that suggest my daughter should already be demonstrating advanced motor skills, possibly speaking in complete sentences, and probably solving basic algebraic equations during diaper changes. “This says she should be showing signs of mathematical comprehension and possibly questioning the meaning of existence!”
“Should Elliot be speaking French?” Emmie counters, waving sign language flashcards desperately. “These cards say bilingual babies have superior cognitive development and better career prospects.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re frantically trying to teach calculus through interpretive dance (which looks exactly as ridiculous as it sounds) while our babies completely ignore every expensive educational toy in favor of the free wrapping paper and cardboard boxes, proving that they’re already smarter than their mothers who just spent approximately three hundred dollars on things that will be ignored in favor of garbage.
“Wait,” I say, watching Ella clap with pure joy as Elliot makes silly faces and both of them gurgle with the kind of happiness that can’t be purchased from educational toy catalogs or worried into existence by neurotic parents. “Are we actually trying to stress out our perfectly happy babies?”
Emmie pauses mid-calculus interpretation. “I think the real geniuses here are the ones smart enough to ignore our educational panic attack and just enjoy being babies.”
As if to prove her point, Ella grabs the fifty-dollar mobile promising enhanced brain development and tries to eat it (because apparently, everything is food when you’re three months old) while Elliot discovers the baby laptop makes an excellent hat and proceeds to wear it with the dignity as if he’s modeling the latest in infant technology fashion and possibly starting a new trend in baby couture.
“You know what?” Emmie whispers as we hear the men’svoices approaching the front door, pizza boxes probably in tow and salvation from our educational insanity within reach. “We just need to be more strategic about this whole genius baby situation. More subtle. Like educational ninjas.”
“Absolutely,” I whisper back, hastily shoving educational materials back into bags like we’re hiding evidence of a crime against common sense. “No matter what it takes, we’re going to propel these babies into prodigy-hood. Even if we have to trick them into it.”
“Whatever it takes,” Emmie agrees as if making a pact with the educational devil.
The door opens and Leo and Jasper return carrying enough pizza boxes to feed half of Cider Cove, the scent of pepperoni and melted cheese immediately filling the cottage and making my mouth water in a way that suggests I’ve been too busy planning my daughter’s educational future to remember basic things like eating, breathing, or maintaining my grip on reality.
“Perfect timing,” Jasper says, setting down the boxes and moving to light the fireplace. “Nothing like pizza by the fire with our favorite people.”
We all settle around the coffee table, the babies contentedly gurgling in their bouncy seats while the pets arrange themselves strategically for maximum pizza crumb acquisition. It’s like they have a whole military operation planned, complete with backup positions and escape routes. And with me around, everyone might need an escape route.
“You know,” Leo says, taking a bite of his slice, “this is going to be such a special Christmas. Elliot’s first real holiday, where he might actually remember some of it.”
“Same with Ella,” Jasper adds, his face lighting up as he watches our daughter wave her tiny fists at nothing in particular. “Her first Christmas morning, first time seeing the tree lit up, first time experiencing all the magic.”
And hopefully not her first time wondering why her mother is tryingto teach her quantum physics before she can even hold her own head up,I want to add but don’t.
Emmie and I share a knowing look across the table—the kind of look that says,we’re definitely not done with our educational ambitions, just temporarily distracted by pizza and the warm fuzzies of family time and the realization that our babies are probably already geniuses for ignoring our ridiculous schemes.
“Oh, it’s going to be wonderful,” Emmie says with the kind of smile that suggests she’s already planning Elliot’s Christmas morning calculus lesson and possibly singing carols to him in Latin.
“Absolutely magical,” I agree, mentally calculating how many educational opportunities I can cram into Christmas Day without anyone noticing or calling child protective services. “Genius in every single way.” I nod to Emmie as if to say,they’ll be solving world problems by New Year’s.
These hoomans never learn,Fish mutters, but I swear I can hear affection in her mental voice, along with what sounds suspiciously like pity.
At least they’re entertaining,Sherlock adds with a philosophical look as if he’s learned to roll with his hoomans’ various forms of insanity. And he so has.
I give it two weeks before they’re back at the baby store,Cinnamon predicts with what I’m afraid is disturbing accuracy.
I give it three days,Gatsby counters, because apparently, even the dogs are taking bets on our parenting neuroses.
Turns out, the most brilliant thing my daughter learned today was how to completely ignore her mother’s ridiculous overachiever ambitions while having a perfectly wonderful time being exactly what she’s supposed to be—a normal, happy baby who finds cardboard boxes more fascinating than quantum physics and has somehow managed to remain blissfully unaware that her mother is slowly losing her mind over developmental milestones.
For now, anyway.
But Emmie and I aren’t giving up our educational dreams. We’re just getting more strategic about our approach to creating baby geniuses. Tomorrow, we’ll be back at the baby store, convinced we just need the right combination of flashcards and classical music to unlock our children’s hidden intellectual potential.
Watch out, world. The educational revolution starts tomorrow, assuming we can figure out how to make learning look like more fun than cardboard boxes. Which, let’s face it, is going to be quite the challenge.
Sort of like solving a homicide before Christmas.
CHAPTER 10
Today’s stop on the Deck the Halls Holiday Home Tour is making our visit to Jennilee Holly’s house look like a dollhouse by comparison—and that’s saying something, considering Jennilee’s charming home was decorated with the kind of warm, homey Christmas magic that made you want to curl up by her fireplace with hot cocoa and never leave.
Her house had that perfect grandmother glam Christmas vibe, complete with handmade ornaments, cookie-scented candles, and a pastel tree that looked like it came straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting—if Norman Rockwell paintings were studded with diamonds.
