“Woah! What are you doing?”
In the thirty seconds it’s taken for me to catch up to Quinn, she’s pushed a chair up to the counter and is teetering on the edge for the cabinet door.
I plop her on her bottom and drag the wingback to the table where it belongs. She doesn’t cry, but she doesn’t squeal fromthe ride either. It’s clear after the stress of the last couple of months, even the fun side of me has died.
I locate what Quinn was trying to reach, except it’s a box of Kodiak Cakes instead of the bag of Krusteaz pancake mix I bought a few days ago. Caroline’s doing, I’m sure. I find a bowl and a pair of scissors, cut the top off the bag, and pour the entire contents in it. Then I read the label.
Makes nine servings. Guess we’ll have leftovers.
The directions seem simple enough: add water. But after a few cups and some strong-handed stirring, there’s no way this gloppy substance will spread on the pan I’ve heated up. I hold the bowl under the faucet and guesstimate.
Pancake soup, that’s what I make next.
Why couldn’t she have asked for cereal? That’s something I’m good at. Something that can’t be messed up.
But now that I’ve used the whole bag, there’s no starting over. I tip the bowl and hope for the best. Runny batter spills onto the pan and spreads into a paper-thin layer. Gravity has the last laugh when the pancake blackens upon contact with the hot surface.
Great.This is going well.
I flip it, give it five seconds on the other side, and toss it on a plate. Quinn grimaces when I slide it in front of her.
“Yeah, let’s do cereal,” I say.
I dump the hockey puck in the garbage and pour the rest of the batter down the drain. Caroline may have replaced the pancake mix, but she can’t reach the cupboard above the fridge.
“Captain Crunch or Frosted Flakes?” I hold up both boxes for Quinn to pick from.
“Dis one.” She points at the face of a giant tiger.
“Frosted Flakes it is.” She sits up on her knees as I push her in tight and turn onSpidey and His Amazing Friends. I start a pot of coffee and check my phone, living on a naivenotion that Todd’s called me in the last three minutes and I somehow didn’t hear it.
No such luck. Ireallyneed the label to reconsider this tour.
While the coffee maker does its thing, I search Purple.com. Three clicks later and I have a queen-size mattress being delivered next Friday. This day is suddenly looking up.
“Nummy!” I hear Quinn say as I glance over at her. She’s hanging her head over her bowl and lapping up the milk, sticky liquid dripping from her soaked curls.
“Oh, mess!” she complains as droplets fall onto her bare thighs.
“Quinn!”
I didn’t account for a bath in our morning routine. No matter how fast I make this, our chances of being on time for school are slim. I scoop her off the chair and jog upstairs to the tub. She thinks it’s a game, giggling and kicking off her boots as we go. I rest her feet on the bathmat and turn on the faucet. The temperature of the water is not cold, but it’s not hot either, and I don’t have the time to wait for it to heat up. I plunk her in.
“Mo ot,” she whines.
I turn the dial higher. “I’m working on it.”
She reaches for herPaw Patrolboat as I lather my hands with shampoo.
“Put the boat down. We have school.”
She clutches on tighter. I give her another reminder before I’m forced to pry it from her hands. She cries as I shield her eyes like a visor and tip a cup of water over her head. I repeat the process with conditioner, making sure to get the front strands the most.
“No Miss Maimy,” she says through a pouty lip.
I unplug the bath.
“You have fun at school with Miss Amy,” I remind her.
