“Why are you doing that?”
“Because the black clothes will make the white clothes all grey, and the red shirt will make your white socks all pink. I like pink socks, but you is a man.”
“That’s a little sexist, don’t you think?” I ask. “Just because ‘I is a man,’ doesn’t mean I can’t wear pink socks.”
Putting her furry blue hands on her hips, she gives me a hard look. “Do you want pink socks?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Then you better sort them.”
A moment later, she’s got the sorting done and starts stuffing my pile of whites into the machine. I crouch down to help, feeling rather sheepish. When we finish, I hold my hand up for a high five. “Thank you, you really are a superhero. Do you know where the powder goes?”
“I’m four. I’m not stupid.”
From the kitchen, Brianna calls, “Isabelle Naomi Lewis, we don’t use that word in this house.”
“Which word?” I whisper to my small friend.
Cupping her little hand over her mouth, she whispers, “Stupid.It’s a bad swear word people say when they make fun of someone whose brain can’t work good.”
“Ah, I see.” Wait a minute. She just implied thatI’mstupid because I didn’t know where the powder goes, which means she thinks my brain doesn’t “work good.”
I wonder if this day could get more humiliating?
Isabelle slides open a small tray near the top of the machine and points a blue finger. “Put the powder in here. Then you close it and turn it on.”
Her eyes light up. “Gotta go!Paw Patrolis on.”
I watch as she thunders down the hall, taking a sharp left into the living room.
“Here, let me show you the rest,” Brianna, who has snuck up behind me, says.
She takes hold of the large dial. “Pull out, turn to here, push it back in, and you’re done. Give it about thirty-five minutes, then come back and you can hang this on the line outside and pop in the next load. You’re welcome to borrow my laundry basket.”
She waits while I follow her instructions. When the sound of pouring water starts up, I feel a surge of excitement. Clean undies at last! Oh, Lord, my life truly is pathetic, no? I smile down at Brianna. “Thank you.”
I follow her into the kitchen to pour myself a coffee while she sits back down in front of half a dozen open textbooks.
“I see you’ve been busy today.”
“Yes, and unfortunately, my aunt went to the north side of the island with some friends for the day, so Isabelle has been stuck in front of the TV all morning.”
“In that case, she must be very happy,” I say, thinking of how much I would enjoy a full day on the couch right now.
“Not really. She’s quite bored. I’m not exactly up for a mum-of-the-year award with the amount I’ve had to study these past few months.”
“You’re awfully hard on yourself,” I say, sitting down at the table.
“Well, that’s what happens when you read a bunch of books on childhood development that tell you how TV is junk food for the brain. So while I’m pursuing my dream, I can’t help but feel a sense of panic that I’m permanently stunting her potential.”
“Christ, you’re putting high stakes on one day of her watching television.”
“Welcome to mum guilt.”
“So you’re working your arse off to give her a better life, and somehow you’re viewing that as a failure on your behalf?”
“Got it in one,” she says, picking up her pencil.
