“Loretta wants rolls.”
Okay, before you start thinking, whoa, who’s Loretta? Please remember my daughter is three. She… sometimes refers to herself as Loretta, and in the third person. I know, bizarre as shit, but lemme explain. She’s three. And that, my friends, is the only answer to give you. That and I’m pretty sure they gave me Stevie Nicks’s baby at the hospital.
I raise an eyebrow. “Spring rolls?
She nods, bouncing around in the kitchen, barely able to control her excitement, and swirling her dress in opposite directions, so excited for food.
Ah, to be three again. Actually, look at me shaking my ass to the beats of no music playing. I’m as excited as she is. Food does that to us girls.
Smiling down at her, I hand her a plate. “Here you go, baby.”
“Thank you, honey.” Before she sits down, she stares at the table. “Where Daddy?”
“He’s working late tonight.”
I take my three containers of food to the booth-style table in our kitchen. I designed every aspect of this house Collin and I built in south Scottsdale, Arizona. It’s in one of those builder grade communities, but I at least got to pick out all the features and have them build me this kitchen booth. There’s something about it that reminds me of eating at a diner after baseball games with my dad.
“How was school?”
Tatum’s eyes remain on her spring roll dissection she’s working on. “Shitty.”
Don’t be so surprised by my daughter’s choice of words. I am her mother, and I told you I enrolled her in private school to help. Either I should have picked a stricter one, or I should be researching boarding schools soon.
While I’m organizing my chicken wings, my spring roll, and the mountain of pad Thai on my plate, Emmie sits across from me next to Tatum and I slide her container of chicken satay. “Oh, yes! Thanks for getting me something.”
Emmie is our neighbor girl who frequently comes over to hang out with me because I’m that cool.
Lies.
Since my nanny up and quit out of the blue, I had to befriend the neighbor girl and bribe her to watch Tatum for me on occasion. Or help with her when I’m swamped with custom orders. Like tonight. I have six custom signs due by tomorrow morning.
I smile at her. “I appreciate you coming over to help me out.”
“Collin working late again?”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes in front of Tatum, but Emmie, she’s fourteen and totally gets it.
Tatum tugs on Emmie’s shirt, smiling at her. “Hi, Emmie.”
“Oh my gosh.” Emmie hugs her to her side. “Your dress is so cue!”
Cute. That must mean cute. I’m… assuming. But what do I know?
Emmie is Tatum’s best friend. She struggles to make friends her own age. Part of this is her ability to drop a well-placed f-bomb, and kids’ parents don’t enjoy this, and the other has to do with Tatum refusing to play with children her own age.
“This peanut sauce is fire.”
“You think it’s spicy?” I lift my eyes to Emmie after pouring the peanut sauce onto my pad Thai. If you’ve never tried it, you’re welcome. You’ll never go back.
“No.” Emmie levels me a straight-faced expression showing my true age of nearly thirty. I’m twenty-eight but might as well round up because last week I was trying to do a TikTok dance with her and pulled a groin muscle. “It’s amazing.”
Right. I remember having to explain to my dad what dope meant. He thought I was doing heroin, when in fact, I was saying something was cool.
Beside Emmie, Tatum dips her spring roll into the extra peanut sauce. “It’s so spicy.” Tatum draws in a quick breath, fanning her mouth and pushing the sauce to the side.
Have you ever watched a toddler eat? It’s… weird. She has certain foods she refuses to eat. Like potatoes. Of any kind. But she’ll eat french fries. Only from McDonald’s. It’s because they put crack in their food, and once it hits the lips of children, they’re addicted to GMOs.
I’m kidding. Kind of. I don’t even know what GMO stands for. Please forgive me, Mr. Ronald. I mean no harm against McDonald’s.
Also, Tatum won’t drink milk. I can’t blame her on that one though. I watched a documentary once on how it’s loaded with puss and blood. Sorry if you just gagged, but imagine my surprise when I watched it.
Anyway, it’s hard to get Tatum to eat anything. But spring rolls are her favorite. Watching her eat them?
Disturbing.
She starts by taking the rice wrapper off, digs out the shrimp, and tosses it to me, eats the lettuce, and then the rice wrapper. Ninety-nine percent of the time, she chokes on it because she has absolutely no gag reflex, and then cries.
Tonight isn’t any different.
AFTER DINNER, IT’S a battle to get Tatum to bed. Though I had Emmie come over, a screaming half-naked toddler takes two people to get in the tub.
I may have given birth to a seventy-year-old gypsy lady who loves Willie Nelson and calls herself Loretta (often in the third person), but she’s like any other toddler. As in, fucking insane about twenty minutes before bedtime.
You know in those Huggies commercials when the parents lay the sleeping baby down in the crib and everything is peaceful?
It’s a lie. At least in my experience. Legit, they drugged that baby.
When it’s time for Tatum to go to bed, she’s like a dehydrated drunk who can’t decide if they’re thirsty, tired, cranky, hungry, or maybe all of the above. I almost feel bad for Emmie having to deal with her, but it’s great birth control for girls her age. Believe me.
I close myself in my office to get started on the signs I need to finish. I’m twenty minutes into it, and Emmie’s on her third book in with Tatum and begging her to fall asleep. I can hear her on the baby monitor. “Please go to sleep.”
“I’m not tired though.”
“Just close your eyes and you will be.”
“If I close my eyes, I sleep. I don’t want to.”
“Loretta, please!”
When you want Tatum to do anything, refer to her as Loretta. It’s as if she appreciates the play along and does whatever you want. I try not to encourage it, but I don’t blame Emmie. Sometimes we have to resort to it.
I’m halfway through my second sign when I hear a car pull into the driveway. Lifting my eyes to my watch, I notice it’s already after ten, and Collin still isn’t home. Figures. He’s been working later and later these days. He hasn’t seen Tatum since Wednesday night when he came home just before I put her to bed. Looks like tonight is another no see Daddy day.
Headlights flash on the dark wall behind me and then click off, two doors closing behind the sound. That’s weird. Is someone with him?
Turning my head, I look out the window facing the driveway, only to see two figures approaching the front door.
“Hey,” Emmie says, coming down the stairs with her cell phone in hand. “Can I stay the night? My mom has book club, and my aunts are over. They’re so extra.”
I nod, my eyes on the driveway as I stand from my table. “What book are they reading?”
Emmie’s attention moves to the driveway as well, peeking around me. “I don’t know. Some book. Who’s that?”