At least that’s what I tell myself when I’m being too cheap to go buy the shit myself.
When we get home, I change my entire outfit, swapping out the blouse for a hoodie, which I toss in the trash without bothering to get the chocolate stain out of the delicate fabric, and step into a pair of gray joggers.
Tossing my hair into a messy updo, I use about three small claw clips to hold it in place. Add a pair of fuzzy socks.
Voila! I’m ready to make some delicious baked chicken, settle onto the couch with a glass of wine, and spend some cozy evening time with my mini-me.
Skipper is hopping around near our front door when I walk into the foyer carrying a tote bag with some cooking supplies, the dress she wore to school long gone in lieu of a pair of rainbow leggings and a long-sleeved T-shirt with a rainbow heart on it.
My little friend is an energetic bundle who is always ready to roll.
We make quick work of the walk between our house and my brother’s, the pair of homes united by a well-worn path between them that was forged through the many, many short journeys traveled.
Skipper scurries to the garage door, punches the code into the keypad, and disappears as it slowly rises into the dark garage as if she lives there rather than in the house next door.
I suppose now that my brother is dating someone (it’s only been one date, but still—Davis hasn’t dated anyone in a long time), my daughter and I should make ourselves more scarce. No sense in pissing off the Good Fairy because we’re cockblock cramping his style.
With Skipper putting together a puzzle in my brother’s living room, I have plenty of time to put together dinner. Popping the chicken in a pan, I add stuffing, then nuke some vegetables in the microwave and throw in a little butter for flavor. The entire meal is quick and simple and healthy, and one I know my daughter will eat. She’s not exactly finicky, but she does have her favorites, and chicken is one of them. Chicken nuggets, chicken wings, baked chicken, chicken kebabs—if it’s chicken, she will eat it.
Skipper yawns halfway through her dinner, which tells me she isn’t going to last very long tonight, and I may have some free time to watch whatever show I want without an argument from a seven-year-old.
I’m not wrong. Shortly after she takes her last bite, she yawns again.
“Mommy, I don’t think I want a bath. I’m tired.”
Her eyes look heavy, and I wonder what they did at school today that made her so exhausted so early in the evening.
“Of course you can go straight to bed.” I smile. No way am I going to argue with her when this buys me some alone time. “Let’s wash up, though, before we brush your teeth.”
Instead of taking her home, I tuck her into the spare bedroom upstairs. Davis has it all tricked out for her anyway; lavender walls, a white double bed with frilly comforter, and enough stuffed animals to rival the FAO Schwarz toy department.
He spoils her rotten, but luckily, she’s not rotten. We’ve been through this same routine dozens of times with Skipper and I coming to Davis’s for the evening. She falls asleep in his guest room, and I hang out until he arrives home. They have breakfast in the morning, occasionally find an activity to go do (like the park or Target), then he brings her home.
Skipper yawns again as I blow her one last kiss before giving her one last backward glance and closing the door.
In the morning after she wakes up, she’ll probably ambush her Uncle Davis and demand his world-famous fluffy pancakes with lots of butter and syrup and sometimes chocolate chips. My brother has none of that in his cabinets, so I should probably order some things for delivery tonight.
After cleaning up the kitchen, I flop down on the sofa and flip through the channels, unable to decide on a show to watch. I’m too tired from my hellish day and ready to slide into my own comfortable bed.
The laundry room door opens just as I lay my head back against the couch cushion, startling me. It’s still relatively early. Too early for Davis and Juliet to arrive home.
They’re laughing as they walk into the kitchen, his keys hitting the counter at the same time as he notices me in his living room.
“I should have known you’d be here.” He comes over to kiss me on the cheek and ruffle my hair. “Sorry I didn’t text you back. We were eating, and then I was driving.”
“I just put Skipper to bed. She tried to stay awake until you got home, but her little eyeballs couldn’t fight it anymore.”