“Just so you know, I already brushed my teeth.” She bares them to me as proof.
I laugh. “Great. We’re off to a good start.”
“Well, Mom always asks after she reads my story, so I’m just saying.”
It makes sense.
I begin the tale, doing my best to use different voices but not coming remotely close to the original voices, too much timbre to mimic a girl pony, and not enough skill to do it without feeling like a major fraud.
“You’re doing great, Jack,” my seven-year-old praises, boosting my confidence. She laughs at all the silly parts and gasps at the dramatic parts even though she’s heard it all before.
When I accidentally skip a page because of my fat fingers, she gently lets me know I missed a page.
When I mispronounce the evil pony’s name, she gently informs me it’s Prince Dancelot, not Prince Lancelot.
When I finish and get to the end, she looks up at me with those big, brown, puppy dog eyes and says the words parents dread to hear at night when they’re done reading the bedtime story.
“Can you read it again? Please?”
“Um.” I have no idea what to do. It took twenty minutes to get through that first reading, and now she wants me to read it again? How long does bedtime take? Does this go on forever?
“No, ma’am, he most certainly cannot read it again. What’s the rule?”
Skipper purses her lips. “One story.”
Penelope laughs. “Nice try, though. I admire the effort.”
Our daughter has giggle fits, hunkering down beneath her blankets. “Oh, Mom!”
Penelope glances at me when I rise so she can kiss Skipper good night. “Gee, wonder where she gets the willpower from?”
Another first.
Comparing her attributes to mine.
Willpower. Determination.
Nonstop energy.
Sure sounds like me.
I swear my chest puffs up from pride, that one sentence burning itself into my memory bank: Gee, wonder where she gets the willpower from?
“Night, sugar booger.” Penelope is leaning down and smooching Skipper on the cheek, forehead, and nose. “Sleep tight.”
“Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”
When she steps away, it’s suddenly my turn, and I swear my palms get sweaty all over again. Something they don’t even do while I’m at work, face-to-face with a three-hundred-pound defensive tackle.
Skipper yawns. “Thanks for the story. You have to work on your voices, but animals are hard.”
“Yeah, they’re hard, especially since it’s a cartoon on television. I haven’t seen that show yet.”
“It’s lots of shows and a movie,” she tells me. “We can watch them tomorrow.”
I won’t be here tomorrow.
With a lump in my throat, I tell her, “We’ll have to watch it sometime.” Leaning in, I’m not quite sure what to do.
I can’t kiss the child good night. I just met her.
Standing up, I straighten her blanket though it doesn’t need to be straightened, and clear my throat, feeling my nose tingle.
You’re not going to see her after tomorrow. This is it, buddy—but this won’t be the only time I get to tuck her into bed.
“I had fun today,” I say. “You’re one of the best…um…” I pause, unsure. “Hoppers I’ve ever seen.”
“Thanks, that’s what everyone tells me.”
Thank goodness she’s modest.
“Well, Skipper, I’m glad I got to tuck you in.”
“Hold out your hand.” Her little arm appears from beneath her purple bedding, palm shoved in my direction. “Show me your thumb.”
She wiggles hers.
I hold out my hand and wiggle mine.
“That can be our secret handshake.”
“Wiggling fingers isn’t a secret handshake,” I inform her, somewhat of an authority on handshakes, given that I’m a professional athlete who uses hand signals for a shit ton of things.
“Oh.”
“Slap my hand, then go like this.” Slap, wiggle, wiggle. “Now bump my elbow with your elbow.” She bumps my elbow. “No giggling. This is serious business,” I say. “Slap the palm, slap the palm, hook the pinkies.”
Skipper’s tiny pink tongue sticks out of her mouth from the sheer concentration and determination to get it right and memorize it.
“We can practice. Don’t worry. Have you ever seen The Parent Trap?”
“No.”
“Ask your mom to watch that movie and pay close attention to the scene where Martin the chauffeur drops off Hallie at summer camp. They do a secret handshake. It’s not the same as our secret handshake, but you can see what one is.”
“Can’t I just google it?”
“How does a seven-year-old know what googling is?”
She shrugs. “I’m seven, Jack, not two. We know things.”
Fair enough.
“But why do you sound like a thirty-year-old?”
“I’m not a grandma!”
She sounds horrified, still too young to know that thirty isn’t old.
“Okay, okay, time for bed.” Even to my own ears, I sound semi-parent-like and pat myself on the back for wrangling her back to the subject at hand. “Have a good day at school tomorrow.”
“I will.”
“Good night.”
“Night.” Skipper yawns. “I like pancakes for breakfast.”
I chuckle as I flip her light switch off. “I’ll give the message to your mom.”
“Thanks.”
I find Penelope in the kitchen wiping down her countertop—one that already appears clean and well-scrubbed. Her nervous energy vibrates when I enter the room.