The title of Mummy is relatively new, within the past six months, a change that left me nervous. Especially the first time Alice visited and heard her refer to me that way.
But instead of being angry, Alice embraced the idea, seeming to enjoy her daughter’s company more now that she belongs to someone else. I don’t understand it, at least not emotionally even if it logically fits, but I’m happy to go along since nobody else seems fazed.
The other participants in the class are also getting ready downstairs, wriggling into tight-fitting outfits with far too many spangly bits. One girl rebelled and is wearing a leotard that would make the Addams Family proud. I try to direct Sophia’s attention her way, but my girly-girl isn’t having a bar of it.
Since taking over the skating rink, I’ve implemented most of the plans that I once pitched to Sergio before he told me its real purpose. Now, the changes are having an impact on our annual takings, pointing our profits in an upward tangent for the first time in the last three quarters.
My husband skulks by the entrance, refusing to join in with the other parents whose progeny are also in the same class. Half these attendees must think Yuri is her dad given he’s the one who actually bothers to interact with them, albeit with his usual brevity.
Not that he’s showing himself today. Sometimes he parades around making sure everybody in the vicinity knows he’s there and ready to defend. Other times, like now, he’s harder to track. Holding back and surveying everything to ensure no threat can get near.
“I tried,” Baxter says before I reach him. “Four times I put the plain outfit in her bag and four times I opened it to check and found she’d snuck the princess one in there, instead.”
For a man who stretches halfway to the vaulted ceiling, he’s remarkably influenced by his tiny daughter. I forgive him this once because she looks extraordinarily cute in the getup, plus she did ‘help’ to sew some of the multitude of sequins in place, so I suppose it’s fair she reaps the benefit.
“And how is my tiny man?” I ask the baby Balabanov who’s fast asleep in his carrier. I touch my finger to his cheek, and he grabs hold of it, wrestling me to his mouth then screwing up his face when his fast-asleep brain realises there’s no milk forthcoming.
“He is excellent as usual,” Baxter answers in a soft growl. “Hold him for a minute?”
I take the carrier and stare down at our son, feeling an overwhelming contentment. Sophia tugs at my other hand, face suffused with worry. “We have to go,” she insists. “We’re running out of time to get ready.”
“Why don’t you head in and get started?” Baxter asks and Sophia’s eyes widen as she vigorously nods, then flees inside the changing room.
“I’ll help her.” I try to give Junior back to his dad but he’s being coy, refusing to take the handle. My eyes narrow in suspicion. “What’s going on?”
“It’s a surprise,” Baxter says, drawing an imaginary zipper over his lips. “I can’t tell you anything on pain of death.”
“Death, eh? Sounds extreme.” I glance after Sophia. “She said she needed a hand fastening the zipper.”
“I’m sure another parent will help her out.”
Now my gaze sharpens as I stare at my beloved partner. Since the abduction, it’s been a battle to let Sophia near anyone who hasn’t been triple vetted. Sounding so blasé about another adult getting close enough to help her isn’t on his standard playlist at all.
“Should I worry about—?”
“Nope. No worrying about anything.” He leans over Baxter Junior as our baby’s eyelids flutter, and smiles. “Wakey-wakey sunshine. You don’t want to miss out on this.”
A parade of small people explode onto the ice as the advanced pairs make their exit. The children zip around with amazing dexterity compared to how they move on land, their low centres of gravity a boon to their ability to balance.
“You know, it’s been a long time since we first broached the subject of marriage,” Baxter says, pulling at the throat of his shirt as though his tie is suddenly too tight.
“Wehaven’t talked about it at all,” I remind him. “The only person who’s proposed to me is Sophia.” I follow the statement with a lengthy sigh as though I care one jot about a piece of paper when I spend every night snuggled up against this lovely man.
Sophie pops her head out from the changing rooms, letting the pneumatic door fall back into place when Baxter gives her the most obtrusive wink I’ve ever seen. She scampers to his side, beaming a smile that could be seen from space, and grabs hold of his hand.
“Your bag,” he tries to whisper from the side of his mouth, but she stares at him in confusion. “The backpack, remember,” he adds, finally drawing a look of comprehension from her face.
She skips back into the changing rooms while I try to school my features to not appear as nervous as I feel. Baxter is avoiding eye contact, pretending a sudden fascination with what’s happening on the ice.
“Here, Daddy.” Sophia shoves the backpack at him, then sticks her thumb straight in her mouth.
“Don’t do that, honey,” he scolds her, and she removes it, tucking both hands behind her back instead.
Junior gives a test howl and I rub his cheek, trying to soothe him. It’s not his hungry cry, not yet, but it’s angling in that direction. His eyes flick open, pale blue right now but with increasing specks of gold that tilt them towards his father’s amber. That’s not the only part where Baxter’s genes have overridden mine. Unless there are some serious facial changes soon, I’m going to be lucky to recognise anything of myself in my tiny man.
Still. There’s always the chance of me having better luck next time. Directly after the birth, I swore never again, yet here we are, not even six months later, and I’m feeling more and more every day that I might be persuaded.
“Hm-hm,” Baxter says, getting down on one knee and causing an explosion of gasps from among the hovering parents. “Isabelle, since you came into my life, I’ve never felt more—”
