Page 43 of Saving Little Clark

Clark huffed, his nose scrunching adorably. "Fine. But only if I get to be helper.”

With a sudden burst of energy, Clark clambered off my lap and darted toward the kitchen, all traces of reticence vanished. Chuckling, I stood to follow at a more sedate pace, only to pause when I noticed his blue binky peeking out from under the pillows.

Chapter 18: Brody

By the time I entered the kitchen, Clark was already rummaging through the fridge, babbling excitedly about dinosaur nuggets and "marsh-pillow fluff." I leaned against the doorframe for a moment, just drinking in the unbearably domestic scene.

He gestured animatedly, a carton of eggs in one hand and a jar of peanut butter in the other. Grinning to myself, I ambled into the fray, deftly dodging flailing limbs and flying condiments.

"Woah there," I laughed, catching Clark around the waist mid-whirl. "Let's put the brakes on the omelette flambée, huh?"

Clark pouted up at me, clearly not appreciating the interruption to his culinary genius. "But you said I could be your helper."

"And you will be, sweetheart, I promise." I booped his nose. "But Daddy needs to make sure you don’t accidentally burn the house down in the process, yeah?"

Deflating a bit, he nodded, relinquishing his ill-gotten ingredients with only minor grumbling. "Okay. But I still wanna help mix stuff."

"Deal. But first things first - can't have any naked faces in the kitchen. That's just asking for trouble."

And with a sly grin, I whipped the binky from my pocket and held it up triumphantly, delighting in the way Clark's eyes went wide.

"My binky!" he squealed, making grabby hands. "Where'd you find it? I've been looking all over!"

"Daddy has his ways, little one. But you gotta promise to be on your very best behavior during dinner prep. No more Tasmanian devil impersonations, capiche?"

When he nodded, I guided it to his eager lips. He latched on with a blissful sigh, eyes slipping shut in contentment.

"Alright," I said, giving his ass a gentle pat. "Let's get this operation underway before your tummy tries to stage a mutiny."

The operation, as it turned out, entailed far more giggling and flinging of ingredients than actual cooking. He took his duties as sous chef very seriously, insisting on tasting every component to ensure optimal "nummy factor." This mainly involved him sticking a finger directly into whatever bowl or pan was closest and bringing it to his mouth with exaggerated "nom nom" sound effects, heedless of the mess left in his wake.

By the time I'd managed to corral him long enough to assemble something vaguely resembling grown-up food, my baby boy was covered in a thin sheen of flour and what I desperately hoped was vanilla extract.

"Okay, little man. I think we're just about ready to eat. Go wash those grubby paws while Daddy cleans up, yeah?"

But rather than scampering off to the sink like I expected, Clark simply plopped down on his bum right there on the floor, grinning up at me.

"Nuh uh," he sing-songed. "I'm too little to reach. You gotta help me."

My eyebrows shot up to my hairline, taken aback by this sudden burst of brattiness. This was a test, I realized with a start. A way of gauging how committed I really was to this newfound dynamic. To seeing if I'd balk at the first hint of stubbornness.

"Is that so?" I mused, crossing my arms over my chest. "Cause from where I'm standing, it looks like my baby bug is more than capable of waddling on over to the sink and getting squeaky clean. He just needs the proper motivation, is all."

Clark pursed his lips. His binky bobbed as he worked it between his teeth, brow furrowed in thought.

"What kinda moti-bation?" he asked finally.

"Well," I drawled, "If a certain adorable helper of mine can manage to wash up and plant his cute little booty in his chair all by himself, like a big boy, there might just be an extra special dessert in it for him after dinner."

He perked up instantly, eyes going wide and hopeful. "Like ice cream?"

"Something even better." I paused for effect, watching him practically wiggle with anticipation. "How does a Sundae sound? Two scoops of vanilla, chocolate syrup, sprinkles, the whole shebang."

The ensuing shriek of delight was so earsplitting, I was briefly concerned the neighbors might call the cops. But then Clark was scrambling to his feet and booking it to the bathroom, all traces of brattiness evaporated.

"I do it!" he chanted, feet slapping against the tiles in his haste.

I counted a slow five before following after him at a more sedate pace, pressing my lips together to keep from laughing outright at his puppyish enthusiasm.

---