Page 14 of Christmas in Paradise

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Why’s da baby up so err-we? What’s Gigi supposed to do wif her?” Mom walks to us, talking in her high, lisping baby voice, while I buckle Charly in.

“The speech therapist recommended we use less baby talk now that she’s getting older,” I remind Mom. Again.

My parents are amazing with Charly. I couldn’t be the mom I am without them, and I hate correcting them. But sometimes the line between parent and grandparent gets a little blurry.

“I know, but look how happy da baby is, even dough she’s up way too err-we, isn’t she?” Mom blows raspberries on Charly’s cheek. Charly giggles loudly, and there’s nothing more I can do besides smile.

Mom rubs Charly’s nose with her own, then walks past me back to the stove. “I’ve told you; we can put her in my room at night so that she doesn’t wake up when you have to get ready. I’m quiet as a mouse. Might make things easier for us all.”

“I know, but Dad snores so loud.” I don’t say that I like having Charly with me. I fill my travel mug with coffee, then grab a granola bar from the pantry. “Today’s my late day. I’m at the store until two, then I need to do some work for Carson, so I’ll head to the library. I won’t be home until six or so.”

“Six? Oh no! I’ve got a church luncheon.” She stays calm and collected, like she always does, but there’s a tightness in her voice that gives away her disappointment. “And I’ve got a nail appointment this afternoon.”

“I thought I told you all this? Did we get days mixed up?” Mom does so much for me that I have to stay patient, even when I want to scream with frustration.

“I’m so sorry, sweetie.” Her voice grows tighter. “I don’t know how I double-booked myself.”

I know how. She never writes things down. She means to, but she’s always forgetting her planner, and she refuses to put things in the Google calendar I’ve set up for us. And to be fair, she’s got a couple of teenagers she’s still raising who are currently yelling at each other about whose turn it is for the bathroom.

“I can try to get off early at the store, but I really need good internet and no interruptions to get stuff done for Carson, and the library closes early tonight.” My voice slows to match the forced calm of hers, even though my pulse has picked up speed.

My sister walks into the kitchen and takes a piece of bacon from the plate Mom is filling. “What’s up? I can hear you two down the hall.”

“Nothing,” Mom says at the same time I say, “I’m gone all day today, and I need someone to watch Charly this afternoon.”

“I can do it,” Ashley answers with an easy shrug and tears off a piece of bacon. “I don’t have—"

“—That’s okay,” Mom interrupts. “I’ll just take her with me.” She bends over the highchair right into Charly’s face, talking in a high baby voice. “Does baby girl want to have lunch and get her nails done with Gigi?”

“Mom, I don’t think…” The rest of my protest gets lost in Mom and Charly’s clapping.

I glance at Ashley who shrugs. There’s no stopping Mom now.

I try anyway. “I’d rather Charly stayed here with Ash. I don’t want her getting sick.”

Charly’s special needs mean her immune system is easily compromised, and she’s prone to asthma attacks. But now that Mom’s planted the idea in her head, lunch and nails is pretty much a done deal. She loves spending time with her Gigi, and I don’t have the time or energy to talk Mom out of it.

“She’ll have more fun with me. Won’t you baby girl?” Mom boops Charly’s nose, and Charly erupts into giggles.

“Okay. Whatever. Just thought I’d offer.” Ashley sticks the corner of a triangle of toast in her mouth. “Gotta go.”

“You need to eat more than that…” Mom follows Ashley but not ten seconds pass before she’s back in the kitchen, shaking her head. “That child never eats enough.”

“I’ve got to run too,” I say, grabbing my own piece of toast and kissing Charly goodbye. “I wish you’d let her stay with Ashley.”

Mom follows me out of the kitchen, telling Charly she’ll be “white back” on our way out. “Charly loves getting her nails done. We’ll have a girls’ day.”

“She’s too young, Mom. And you know how she gets when she’s overstimulated. You’re setting her up for a meltdown.” I hitch my backpack over my shoulder, trying not to meet Mom’s eyes. I know I’m lecturing her.

“I did the same with you when you weren’t much older, and you loved it.” Mom says cheerfully, helping me slide the other strap over my shoulder, like I’m seven years old. “I’ll dress her up and show her off. The ladies at lunch will fawn over her like fairies over a foundling.”

“She’s already dressed, Mom.” I pull the straps on my backpack tighter. Too tight, but I don’t have time to loosen them.

“Oh, she always makes such a mess, I’m sure she’ll need a change of clothes.” She walks me to the door. “I’ll put her in that cute jumper I got her.”

“Mom…”

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