“You did it! You did it!” Adelaide jumps across the mat and leaps onto Jude, sending them both tumbling to the ground.
This time, Jude’s laughter echoes alongside Adelaide’s throughout the small space. And relief washes over me.
I can’t exactly put my finger on it, but something is off with her. I know Saturday night was weird, but we talked about it and she seemed fine. Then she came home from brunch with her mom, and not only was she tipsy . . . again, but she had this dead expression behind her eyes and a hollowness to her laugh.
But what can I say? Dead eyes isn’t exactly solid proof . . . not to mention, a little rude.
At least now her laughter is full and real. Adelaide can do that though. I know I’m her mom and maybe a little biased, but she is pure magic. You can’t be around her and not love every single piece of her. She even softened my mom. And if that’s not magic, then I don’t know what is.
“All right, Olympians, dinner’s ready.” I carry the cauliflower-crust pizza with marinara sauce I’ve blended zucchini and spinach into to the table before putting giant slices on each of our plates. Plates that have unicorns on them. Needless to say, Adelaide set the table tonight.
“Addy isn’t an Olympian,” Jude corrects me as she pulls out her chair. “She’s the president, remember?”
“I can be an Olympian too. I’m good at a lot of things.” Adelaide climbs into her chair, ticking off her fingers one by one as she lists all the things she’s amazing at. “Gymnastics, drawing, riding my bike, telling stories, leadership . . . stuff like that.” She shrugs before picking up her pizza and taking a monster bite.
At least I know confidence isn’t something she struggles with.
“Leadership?” Jude’s eyes crinkle at the sides before she digs into her pizza. “Tell me about your leadership skills.”
“You know,” Adelaide starts, but I cut her off.
“No talking with food in your mouth.”
I used to hate eating dinner with my family. They were so strict about absolutely everything. From the way we would cut our food to the subjects we could talk about. And I don’t want that for Adelaide. I love that we laugh at the table and talk about whatever comes to mind. But I still have to enforce basic table manners. Mom life and all that stuff.
As soon as Adelaide swallows her food, she turns to me and opens her mouth wide as proof before launching back into her conversation.
“Mom says I have good leadership skills. ’Cause, like, when we go to the park, I find new friends and then find a game that we can all play together. Or at school, when Josie was getting pushed by Nolan, I told him to stop, and when he didn’t, I told the teacher. And when the teacher told me that Nolan probably just liked Josie, I told her she was wrong. And that being mean to someone isn’t how you show a friend you like them.”
I had to email the teacher after that second incident.
I also took Adelaide for ice cream.
I feel like I’m failing at this parenting thing about ninety-nine percent of the time, but in moments like that, I know I’m doing something right.
“Damn, girl. You’re right, you do have mad leadership skills.”
“Ooooh!” Adelaide turns wide brown eyes to me. “Auntie Jude said damn!”
Jude throws a hand over her mouth as pink tinges her cheeks. “Sorry!”
“Mommy, what does damn mean?” Adelaide looks innocent, but I already know her game.
“Stop trying to figure out ways to keep saying the word. It’s a grown-up word, that’s all you need to know.”
Also, I’m not sure I know what the actual definition of damn is. So I couldn’t answer her question anyway.
“Fine.” She pouts before taking another bite of pizza.
The rest of dinner flies by in a flurry of hand gestures and giggles. Eventually, I stop asking Adelaide to chew with her mouth closed and just let myself live in the moment, listening to my girl as she fills us in on all the latest tales from day care. Jude tells us about the photo shoot she had today and how the photographer was a woman who, like Adelaide, had phenomenal leadership skills. Then I tell them about the patient whose water broke all over the waiting room as I was checking her in. Adelaide finds it hysterical . . . Jude goes green at the word fluids.
Jude stands up and reaches for the plates when the entire cauliflower-crust pizza has disappeared. “I got the dishes.”
I was a stay-at-home mom when I lived with Ben, and all of the household duties fell on me. I mean, I guess it was technically my job. But I don’t think I’ll ever forget how tired I was after Adelaide was born. It was a down-to-the-bone, crying-literal-tears tired. If he had taken even just one thing off my plate, it would’ve made a huge difference.
Which is why I don’t take having Jude around for granted. “Are you sure?”
“Of course, you did the cooking.” She waves me off, not understanding what a big deal this is for me. “I hate cooking. Which, and don’t shut this down immediately—”
“Well, when you start it like that.” I roll my eyes. Subtlety has never been Jude’s strong point.
“I think you should start a mom blog.” I open my mouth to say no, but she talks over me. “Oh! No! You should do a podcast! Just think about it! You’d be great at it and you have such a unique perspective. Plus, I know people who can help you out. It might be a fun way to get some extra income.”
If a status update is too much for me, in what universe would I want to blog? And podcasting? Give me a break. Nobody wants to listen to me talk.
On the other hand . . . the extra income would be amazing, and she’s made quite a name in the influencer world. So maybe? “I’ll think about it.”
“I know you are humoring me right now, but I’m serious. Just don’t shut the idea all the way down yet.”
“Fine,” I grumble. I can’t say no to Jude. Also, she’s a nagger and I can’t listen to her whine about this all night long. But, and I will never say this out loud, it is nice to finally live with someone who actually believes in me.
Growing up, I always felt like my mom was waiting for me to fail . . . which, even though she loves Adelaide, she never misses an opportunity to talk about the student loans they paid for no reason. And Ben . . . well, I don’t think Ben expected anything out of me.
I have a more balanced home life with a roommate than I did with the man I was going to marry. I never had a partnership with Ben. Not ever. It was Ben’s world, and he thought I was just lucky to be along for the ride. He didn’t owe me anything and I owed him everything.
Never. Again.