Page 80 of Christmas in Paradise

Charly’s lip quivers. “I want Mama.”

Her eyes fill with tears, and I have to think fast, because what is happening here? One minute she’s in butter heaven, and now she’s ready to cry. Is this normal three-year-old behavior? Are they all this manic? And just when I thought I was getting the hang of this toddler stuff.

“How about ebelskiver? Are you hungry?” I grab a plate and toss the round pancakes on it, then remember she needs a plastic plate, but I don’t know where those are, so I grab the last paper towel and put them on it.

I plop the ebelskiver on the table, then hold out my hand. “Come on, Charly. Come sit down. Look, you can eat the pancakes we made.” I switch words, English words are easier for her to say than Danish ones. Go figure.

And, oh no. A tear just dropped. My heart stops.

“I want choc-ut.” Her voice waivers with her quivering lower lip.

“Chocolate? There’s chocolate inside of them.” I grab an ebelskiver and break it open to show her the chocolate-y middle.

“I want choc-ut.” She sniffs.

I’ve got a decision to make here: risk making Hope mad by stuffing Charly full of sugar, or risk Charly melting down.

I decide I’d rather make Hope mad and have to clean up another chocolate mess than have Charly cry.

“Okay! You sit down, and I’ll get the chocolate.”

She takes my hand, and I help her into her chair. Her dress is still on the floor, so I grab it and then the Nutella and take both back to the table.

“Let’s get your dress on you first.”

Charly raises her arms, and I slip the dress over her head. At least this part is easy, except she had tight things on earlier, and I have no idea where those are.

I scoop a big spoonful of Nutella out of the jar and drop it on Charly’s plate. She sticks her finger in the middle of it and smiles wide before sticking it in her mouth.

“I wuv choc-ut,” she says and dips again.

There’s no doubt she’s going to be a mess and that Hope will think I don’t know what I’m doing feeding her kid mountains of white carbs and chocolate for dinner. But at least Charly’s not crying.

In fact, she smiles and laughs each time she sticks her fingers in the chocolate and in the middle of the pancakes. I don’t know how much she’s actually eating, but maybe this counts as one of those therapy things Mom’s been doing with her to make her motor skills better.

I watch for a minute or two, wondering if I should help her. But she seems fine eating without my help, so I fill Uncle Rad’s bowl, so she can eat dinner too.

“You wanna pancake, Unkuhrad?” Charly holds out an ebelskiver for Uncle Rad.

“Dogs can’t have chocolate, Charly. You eat it for her.” I lead Uncle Rad back to her bowl before she can grab the pancake.

When I look back at Charly, she’s stuffed the ebelskiver in her mouth. So I did something right, because at least she’s eating now. Even if it is a dessert dinner.

While she chatters and eats, I wipe up the mess we made. There are bowls of dough, open containers of sugar, flour, and all kinds of toppings scattered across the counter, and little flour footprints on the floor.

The sink fills with dishes as I clear the counter, and I feel pretty good about cleaning up after myself. Mom will be surprised. Maybe even proud. I can’t remember how long it’s been since I washed dishes.

I get so focused on cleaning that I barely notice when Charly’s running monologue stops. When I do notice the silence, I panic and turn around.

Charly’s not in her seat anymore, and I’m ready to be greeted by a new mess until I see her.

She’s curled up with Uncle Rad on the too-big bed I bought for Rad. Her eyes drift open and closed in slow blinks as she runs her hand down Uncle Rad’s back. For her part, Uncle Rad is in heaven licking the butter out of Charly’s hair.

And that seems like a win-win situation, so I let them be and go back to disaster clean-up.

I don’t get far before I hear a knock at the door.

“Gia? Seb?” Hope calls from the mudroom.

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