Page 8 of Colt

“Good.” He sits up and smiles. “I think we have PD today.”

Chuckling, I run a hand over his back. “You mean PE? You really like that class, don’t you?”

“I do, but I think I like music better.”

“I like music too. Should we play some while we eat breakfast?”

“Only if you make me waffles,” Dean replies.

I frown. “Where’d those manners run off to?”

He makes a show of rolling his eyes, but then he grins. “May I please have some waffles, Daddy?”

“Sure thing. You gotta eat your yogurt, though, too, all right? That protein will help you grow big and strong, like me.” I lift my arm and tense my bicep, making it pop against my sleeve.

Dean does the same but pulls up his sleeve. “I got muscles too. See?”

“Lemme feel ’em.” I pretend to pump his little bicep. “Wow, buddy, those are impressive.”

He pulls his sleeve back down. “Thanks. It’s because I’m a cowboy.”

“Best cowboy on the ranch, no question.”

“I know,” he says with a sly little smile. “Will you get me some new chaps if I poop? The kind without the fringe, like yours?”

I let out a bark of laughter, even as my middle tightens with a familiar anxiety. Dean has been a bear to potty train. He still gets constipated, and sometimes he gets so stopped up that he can’t hold it anymore. He has accidents often enough to have me picking up new underwear for him anytime I go into town.

I’m ashamed to admit I’ve resorted to bribery. Not sure what else to do at this point. Everyone tells me he’ll go off to college knowing how to poop in the potty. But in the meantime, we’re struggling. Hard.

Setting him in the chair beside mine, I get up. “If you keep your underwear clean for a week, we’ll talk.”

I turn on our current favorite band, the Lumineers, while I make breakfast and pack Dean’s lunch. Ryder, who’s always been big into music, turned me on to the band recently.

Dean picks at his waffles for a bit, then meanders over to the counter.

“Peanut butter and jelly again?” He sighs when he sees the sandwich I’m making.

I glance at the clock. “What’s wrong with peanut butter and jelly? You ate it every day this week. And last week. And the week before that, come to think of it.”

“I don’t think I like it anymore.”

Inhale. Exhale.

“What would you like, then?” I ask.

“Betty always has chicken nuggets in her lunch.”

I chuckle. “Didn’t know people were naming their kids Betty again.”

“What’s wrong with Betty?”

“Nothing. So you’re telling me you want chicken nuggets?”

“Yes.”

My left eye literally twitches from the effort of not rolling it. I turn on the oven. “Hey, buddy, it’s time to get dressed. Please bring your plate up to the sink.”

“I don’t want to bring my plate up,” he whines, reaching for the oven.