My phone rings, jarring me out of my trip down memory lane. Shit. It’s the preschool. “Hello?”
“Hi, Ella, it’s Marie,” the woman says. Marie is the teacher in the four-year-old room at the main preschool in Eternity Springs. “Oliver had an accident again, and there aren’t any spare clothes in his backpack.”
Dammit. I knew I forgot to do something this morning. It’s rare that I take a day off during the week, and I kept Violet home with me. Oliver absolutely loves day care, and would never choose to stay home on my off days. “I’m so sorry. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“No rush. He’s hanging out in a pull-up right now, totally happy. It’s almost time for pick up anyway, so you’re more than welcome to grab him early.”
“Okay. Once Violet finishes her last ounce of formula, I’ll head over.”
At four years old, Oliver has been regressing quite a bit lately. His pediatrician told me not to be concerned, because he’d lost the only parent he had. Violet and Oliver had different fathers. If Ember knew Oliver’s father, she’d never told anyone, and he wasn’t listed on the birth certificate. Only after her death did I find a paper shoved in the back of her filing cabinet for a guy I’d never heard of, relinquishing his rights to Oliver. It was a relief, honestly, to know I wouldn’t have to fight any birth parent for him.
While Violet has seemed to struggle to find joy as a baby, Oliver has lashed out in other ways. He has impeccable speech, but nowuses a lot of baby talk to display his emotions. Regression in potty training has been quite the issue. Before Ember’s death, Oliver was one of the first boys in his preschool class to triumph over pull-ups. Especially within the past two months, he’s been having accidents on a more consistent basis. The pediatrician says there’s nothing wrong with him physically. He suggested a child therapist, and we’re on a waitlist for a highly recommended one on the outskirts of Denver.
I’m convinced I’m doing an awful job of raising my niece and nephew. I didn’t even want kids. I liked being the fun aunt who could have Oliver over for a sleepover, then send him back to his mom’s house, so that I could recover. I had visions of grand adventures I’d have with Violet, but always with the assumption she’d go home afterward. It’s been a challenge to come to terms with the fact that I am now the mother. A second-rate one at that. And I feel like I’m failing my sister every day.
After a large belch from Violet, I walk out to my SUV. Securing her safely in her rear-facing car seat, I begin the short drive across town to the Rising Stars Preschool. It’s a cold and blustery February day, and dark clouds promise more snow on the way for Eternity Springs. I’m thankful I only live one block away from the bookstore, and my childcare provider lives next door, so even when the roads get dicey, I can get to and from work safely.
“Alright, pretty girl, let’s go get your brother,” I sigh, as I pull into the parking lot at Rising Stars and turn off my car. I see the very old sticker in the upper lefthand corner of my windshield, noting how many thousands of miles I’m overdue for an oil change, but I don’t have any money to spare right now. My sister didn’t have any savings or life insurance, and infant formula is ridiculously expensive. Violet had difficulty gaining weight at birth, and her pediatrician put her on Nutramigen hypoallergenic baby formula. I love that she immediately began gaining weight, but the formula is at least thirty bucks a container! Occasionally the pediatrician has samples he gives me, but it still costsa ton. I recently began trying solids with her, and it has not gone well.
I quickly pull Violet from the car and briskly walk toward the building. As I open the door into the lobby, I see Oliver waving at me from behind the desk. “Auntie Ella! You’re early!”
“That I am,” I mumble, jostling Violet on my hip. Her head is on a swivel as she takes in all the action. We can hear music from one room, loud squealing from another, and multiple phone lines ring as a frazzled Marie strides around the corner.
“I’m so sorry to just throw him at you, but another kiddo just threw up, and we’re down a teacher already,” she says.
“Stomach flu?” I ask, my heart dropping. She gives me a grim nod. “Great.”
“Hey, maybe you’re getting out of here in time. I’ll cross my fingers Oliver doesn’t get sick.” A crash sounds from behind Marie, and she winces. “Crap. I gotta go.”
“Good luck,” I murmur, then look down at Oliver. He peers up at me, suddenly pale.
“Auntie, I don’t feel good.”
Shit.
“Come on. Let’s get home before anything else happens.”
“Auntie, I feel yucky …” he trails off, and I know. I feel it in my bones, two seconds before it happens. Then I literally feel it, when it hits my shoes. Tears fill my eyes as I take a deep breath, acutely aware of how much my life is going to suck for the next couple of days.
“I spoke too soon. So sorry, El! Take him home. I’ll clean up,” Marie says hastily from the desk. I nod glumly as I grab Oliver’s hand.
“I frow up,” Oliver says. “I don’t like that.”
“I know, buddy. I don’t like to throw up either.”
“Why, though? Why I frow up?”
Thankful I left the car unlocked, I usher Oliver into the car, then round it to put Violet back into her seat. “Well, some germsgot into your tummy. When your body doesn’t like the germs, it wants to get them out. Throwing up is the fastest way to get the germs out.”
“Am I gonna frow up again?” he asks.
“I don’t know. Maybe. Let’s get home, get you in a warm bath, and we’ll take it a step at a time. Okay?” He nods, but his lower lip quivers. I’m close to crying as well, and Violet’s gaze bounces between the two of us as I snap her into her seat, then hustle back to make sure Oliver is in his booster.
I take deep breaths as I drive home, slightly above the speed limit, willing myself not to focus my attention on the smell in my car, or how my feet feel. Oliver missed his entire body, seemingly focused on hitting just me. In a normal situation, I’d admire that feat. But right now, I’m two seconds away from having a breakdown. I don’t like vomit, especially when it’s someone else’s.
My tires squeal as I come to a stop in front of my building, and I get both kids out of the car in record time. As I’m pushing Oliver through our door, my phone rings. Right as I pull it from my pocket, seeing Gianna’s name, I go to hit the “decline” button, and Oliver throws up again.
“Shit!” I shout, putting Violet in her bouncer. I grab a trash can and shove it under Oliver as he continues to retch.
