"Ivy, breathe," I say.
She takes a breath, then immediately continues. "And THIS one is a stegosaurus, and it had plates on its back for THERMOREGULATION---"
A dad I don't recognize leans over. "That's a really impressive vocabulary for a six-year-old."
"She reads a lot," I say.
"Clearly." He extends his hand. "I'm Todd. My son's in Ivy's class."
I shake his hand while keeping half my attention on Ivy, who's now demonstrating the defensive capabilities of stegosaurus tail spikes using a plastic model and sound effects.
"Your wife's great with the kids," Todd says, nodding toward Gemma.
She's crouched at the sand table, helping a small girl brush away "sediment" with a paintbrush. The girl finds something, squeals, and Gemma celebrates like they've just discovered an actual T-Rex skeleton.
"She's not my wife," I say.
"Oh. Sorry. Girlfriend?"
"Tenant."
His eyebrows climb. "Tenant?"
"She's renting my in-law suite."
"Huh." He watches Gemma help another kid identify a triceratops skull. "That's... different."
Before I can figure out how to respond to that---or if I even should---Ivy spots a crisis at the fossil dig.
"Daddy! Come help! We need more sand!"
I escape to the sand table.
For the next hour, I'm buried in Dinosaur Day chaos. Literally buried at one point, when a kid dumps half a bucket of sand on my boots while excavating for a buried brachiosaurus femur that turns out to be a Lego brick. I'm going to be finding sand in my boots for weeks.
Ivy gives a presentation on the K-T extinction to a captive audience of six-year-olds who understand maybe thirty percent of what she's saying but are completely mesmerized anyway. Gemma sits in the back making appropriately horrified faces during the parts about asteroid impacts.
A mom tries to make conversation with Gemma about pediatricians.
Gemma's smile goes supernova. "Oh, I don't have kids! Just really like dinosaurs! Who doesn't like dinosaurs, right? They're so... extinct!"
The mom's smile freezes. She blinks. Blinks again. Looks around like she's hoping someone will rescue her from this conversation.
Gemma's face goes red. "I mean, not that extinction is good. Extinction is terrible. Very sad. But also educational? And---" She spots a kid struggling with scissors. "Oh! I should help with that!"
She practically sprints across the room.
I watch her crouch next to the kid. The too-bright smile vanishes. Her shoulders relax. She shows him how to cut along the dotted line for his pteranodon wings, patient and calm, like she's got all day.
A woman with a clipboard appears at my elbow. "Captain Delano? I'm organizing the parent volunteer schedule for the spring carnival. Can I sign you up for the dunk tank?"
"I work shifts."
"We're flexible on timing!" Her smile could power a small city. "And I'm sure your girlfriend would love to help---"
"Not my girlfriend."
"Oh!" She doesn't miss a beat. "Well, your friend is very sweet. We'd love to have her volunteer too."
