While he’s distracted, I mouth ‘thank you’ to Murph and Joel, who nod in response. Win catches my eye and winks, and I smile back, hiding my amusement as Ben glances up at me. With Ben now actually eating his veggies instead of ignoring them in favor of the barbecue chicken and potatoes cut up on his plate, I relax and try to enjoy my own meal, even if my stomach isn’t up to eating too much of all this delicious homemade food I didn’t have to cook.
“Did you get settled in okay?” Win asks me once Ben has eaten five pieces of broccoli, as if he were afraid that speaking would distract Ben from an important task.
I smile. “Yes, thanks.”
Win came up to my room and asked me what time I wanted to eat. We’ve been traveling for a while, and althoughour location keeps changing, I’ve kept Ben’s bedtime routine consistent:
Dinner at 5 to 5:30 p.m. Wind-down activities to avoid stimulating him until around 7, when Ben has a bath, uses the potty, I brush his teeth, and read to him. He’s usually snoring by 8:30.
Before my morning sickness hit, I’d stay up and read or watch TV. Now, even though I’m usually asleep by 9 p.m., and awake at 6 when Ben jumps all over me, nine hours of sleep never feels like it’s long enough.
Murph keeps his head down as he clears his plate. He hasn’t spoken to me since I snapped that I didn’t want to talk to him about Simon, and I’m not sure if I’m disappointed or relieved by his silence.
“So, how’d you find our small town?” Joel asks me.
I glance at Win, surprised that he didn’t mention that I’m on a road trip with Ben.
“Mommy threw up on her shoes, and we needed a restroom,” Ben announces.
I let out a long-suffering sigh, and trust me, Iamsuffering from my kiddo’s inability to filter. I put my fork down, my appetite dead in the water. “Please stop telling everyone about me throwing up on my shoes, Ben.”
It was embarrassing enough the first time he told Joel at the diner. Win’s eyes crease with concern. Murph stops eating to look at me, his gaze probing, before a shutter comes down, rendering him unreadable.
“But if they don’t know you’re sick, then they won’t know you need someone to take care of you like you take care of me whenI’msick,” Ben says, making all the sense in the world.
I love this boy so damn much.
“Smart kid,” Joel says, eyes sparkling.
Ben puffs his chest out, preening.
“I don’t need anyone to take care of me,” I tell Ben.
“I’d say everyone needs a little help every now and again,” Win says, giving Murph’s shoulder a nudge. “Even this big guy has been known to ask for help when he needs it.”
Murph grumbles but doesn’t deny it, making me curious what kind of help he needed and why. One thing I can’t disagree with is Win’s logic. Everyonedoesneed a little help every now and again.
“We’re on a road trip,” Ben says, glancing at me.
I smile. “It’s okay. You can tell them about it.”
For the next several minutes, between bites of his dinner, Ben tells Win, Murph, and Joel about all the places he’s excited to see on our road trip.
I might have spent two weeks at my parents' dining table planning it, but it didn’t start there. This road trip has been years in the making. Years ago, before we graduated from college, Simon and I mapped out where we’d stop, what we’d see, everything. The only thing we didn’t do was make time for the damn trip.
Win, Joel, and Murph listen, asking him questions about sights. I fill in the gaps when Ben looks at me because he can’t remember everything.
Ben clears all the broccoli from his plate, not just the five pieces I said he had to eat. He even forgets to remind me about the scoop of vanilla ice cream I told him he could have if he did. I can’t remember the last time he did that, but I know it has everything to do with the three men sitting at this dining table.
“Mommy, are you going to die?”
Not a question I expected from my five-year-old as I tucked him into bed after giving him a bath and brushing his teeth. He fought hard to avoid coming upstairs. Once he decided to show Murph, Win, and Joel all his toys—including his Lego—I knew getting him to leave the living room after dinner would be a battle.
I was right. It was an epic one.
“No, I won’t die,” I tell him gently. “Why do you think that, baby?”
He looks down, fussing with the sheet I pulled over him seconds before. “Gramma got sick, and she went away. Now you’re sick, and I don’t want you to go away like Daddy.”
