If Lennon has to come out with me when I don’t have someone to watch her, or on the weekends, she doesn’t complain. She’s a great little farmhand and genuinely loves the animals and the chores, which is rare for a kid.
I laugh, thinking about how Brynn and Clover would throw tantrums if they were asked to simply put dishes away; that’s how often Clover was at our house. She had chores just like the rest of us, and I’m pretty sure Brynn had chores at her house, too.
Thunder claps and a scream pierces the air.
“Lennon!” I yell over the loud rain. “Lennon!”
I took my eyes off of her just long enough to throw some hay, and now I can’t find her. God, I hope that scream wasn’t her.
“I’m okay, Daddy!” She hollers back. “It was Clover!”
“What the fuck?” I storm out of the barn and around the corner, where Lennon has her arms full holding a baby goat, andClover is stuck between the barn, a hay bale, a fence, and one of the goats.
“What are you doing, Clover?” I yell, thunder crashing again.
“Trying to help!” She calls back. “Can you call off your guard goat?!”
“Damnit, woman,” I mutter. “Len, take the baby in. I’ll get this one. Good job getting them, kiddo,” I praise. Thunder claps again and Lennon hustles inside.
I pet the remaining goat’s head and push her gently, breaking her focus on Clover, and she bolts into the barn.
Clover comes out of her corner. “Go,” I demand, pointing to the house. “Take Lennon, and y’all go inside. I have to ride out and get the horses in. I don’t need any broken legs if the mud gets thick.”
She looks a bit disappointed, like I’m reprimanding her, but it’s far from it.
“Thank you for wanting to help, Clover. I appreciate it.” I level her with a stare, making sure she knows I’m being genuine.
I see a bit of light come back to her eyes, and she nods, hurrying into the barn. I see her squat down and talk to Lennon for a minute. They both laugh, and she helps her close the babies in the stall before holding hands and running back to the house, giggling the whole way.
* * *
When I getthe horses up and finally get back to the house, the girls are in the living room near the fireplace. Lennon is in pajamas, looking exhausted, and she should be. It’s near midnight. She usually doesn’t stay up this late unless she’s had a nightmare or we’ve been out doing something. Clover is brushing Lennon’s wet hair gently, careful not to tug on any ofthe tangles. I lean against the door frame and watch her fingers move through my daughter’s hair, braiding it easily.
“You do that way better than me,” I say. Both of them look over.
“You do your best, Daddy,” Lennon says, yawning big, consoling me.
“I hope you don’t mind, I had her hop in the shower. She had dirt caked in her hair from falling in the goat pen. Mud hole about ate her up,” Clover says, her voice a bit over the top. Lennon nods dramatically, and I immediately know it’s her version of a ‘the fish was thiiis big’ story.
“I bet that was pretty scary, huh, Beetlebug?” I ask her gently. Lennon is a witty kid and sometimes wise beyond her years, but she’s still just a six-year-old. She nods.
“I’m glad you’re alright, kiddo. You ready for bed?” I hold my hand out for her and she takes it easily. She’s too tired to fight me about sleep tonight, and I don’t blame her. I am too. She waves shyly to Clover, who returns the wave with a warm, familiar smile.
The girl may have annoyed the shit out of me my entire life, but deep down, she really is a decent person.
“Goodnight, Lenny,” Clover says quietly.
Lennon giggles. “Night night, Clo,” she responds.
Nicknames.
On our way past the couch, Lennon stops to scoop Purrlock up and tote him to her bedroom with us. He seems to take no issue with it. I watch as she places him down on the little nest that she and Clover must have made for him.
When she gets him settled, she climbs into bed too, her arms held up for me to pull the blankets to her armpits. We go through our routine. Every night, she can choose for me to read her a book, we can listen to music, or I can make up a story. After that,we tell each other onereallygood thing that happened to us that day.
Tonight, she chose a book about llamas in pajamas. After I finished it, we both sat quietly for a minute, trying to choose the best part of the day.
“I think my best part of the day was when we had lunch on the porch earlier. The lemonade your Gran made us was pretty darn good,” I say, choosing mine.
