But I can’t. I sit and listen, soaking in the sounds of my son’s happy voice and Mercer’s deeper one—which is going through all the emotions.
Delight and amusement. “Ohhh! This smells so good, Zack. Here, would you like to smell the lemon? No! Don’t squeeze—well, yes, it will shoot you in the eye if you do that. Have a towel.”
Confusion. “What is a fish spatula? How many kinds of spatulas are there? Zack, can you find any spatulas in the index? Oh. No, I didn’t realize you couldn’t read.”
Patience. “You know your letters? That’s wonderful. Yes, you can sing the alphabet song to me. Very good! Now you want to sing it like a turtle? Okay, go ahead.”
Pride. “Your mother is going to love this.”
Doubt. “Ihopeyour mother loves this.”
I have to keep my hands over my mouth to stop from chiming in or giggling as I eavesdrop. In an hour, I get a few sentences done, and the rest of the time is spent in spy mode or daydream mode.
“Go set the table, little one.”
“We did that.”
“You did? Oh! You did. Well, you hop into your seat and wait while I finish up the last of the dishes.”
That brings me out of my chair. “You did the dishes? You just finished cooking! And it smells like heaven,” I add quickly.
“Well, it’s very simple, but that means I had less opportunity to mess things up. Fish, pan-fried in butter and lemon, with salt and pepper. New potatoes, boiled, with butter, garlic, and dill. And asparagus, roasted, with lemon, olive oil, salt, and pepper. It sounds horribly basic, doesn’t it?”
“You made it, and it looks wonderful. So does the kitchen. How...” I trail off when I see that the sink is clear, the plates are made, and Mercer is carrying in three at a time, two with themeal he described and one with a thick slice of the quiche he bought for Zack.
“It’s kraken magic,” Zack says in a hushed voice. He buckles himself into the red booster seat strapped to one of my dining room table chairs. He starts demonstrating “kraken magic,” his arms waving like loose spaghetti. “First, you stand on two of the tentacles, and one helps me hold the book. Then two do the dishes. And then hands use the spatula. That starts with S.”
Mercer places the plates down and pulls out my chair. “It’s not magic. It’s just being useful.”
“I think it’s magical. You didn’t have to clean up. Eli and I had a rule that if I cooked, he did the dishes, and vice versa.”
Mercer’s face darkens. “That’s a nice rule—but sometimes it is nice to do more than one’s ‘fair share.’ Sometimes it is nice to do more than the minimum. It shows you’d give your all, not just half.”
“Can I eat the pie? I’m having two pies! Chicken and cheese, and grasshopper.” Zack has apparently missed the discussion on chivalry and has his fork poised to stab into the crust, his favorite part.
“Let’s say grace and thank Mr. Mercer first.”
Zack chirps out both while I watch Mercer, and Mercer watches him. His face softens into the sweetest smile when Zack thanks him, and that makes me go all ooey-gooey in the heart region.
After an amazing dinner, a delicious dessert, and a game of Go Fish, Zack starts to yawn. I usher him down the hall to put on jammies and brush his teeth, warning Mercer that he can leave the dishes for me this time.
In thirty seconds, I hear water running and dishes clanking.
Should I be mad that he didn’t listen? Or grateful that he’s helping?
This is good first-impression stuff, Madelyn. Eli used to be super attentive when you were dating.
He’d plan dates. Take you on nice vacations. Fancy hotels overnight. Spend money to buy presents.
This is different. This is real work. This isn’t fun. It’s worth it, but it’s not fun—and when Eli would buy me fancy clothes, he’d get to take me out of them. When he’d take us on vacation, he got to come along.
There’s nothing glamorous about scrubbing pots and pans.
This is with a kid in the mix. Even if Mercer thinks that making dinner and being awesome to my son is going to get him something—he’s wrong.
I think.
“Pick out some bedtime books,” I murmur, kissing Zack on the head after he’s done brushing.
