Page 2 of The Nanny Goal

I take a deep breath and remind myself of the daily goals: getting through the day without snapping at anyone, and being grateful for what I have.

The nearest thing I can find to clean myself off with is the t-shirt I took off last night. After wiping myself off, I dump that in the hamper in my bathroom—laundry I’ve made it clear to my mother I can do myself—and quickly wash up before pulling on a fresh shirt.

Then I head to the nursery at the opposite end of the hall, across from the spare bedroom where my parents sleep. A shared bathroom is in between the two rooms, and often my mother beats me to the task of getting Inessa out of my bed, but not today.

My tiny tyrant of a daughter is sitting up in her toddler bed, rubbing sleep from her eyes. I just built the white princess frame a week ago, after I found her climbing out of her crib. But she’s still not sure what to make of it, and when she wakes up in the morning, she waits for someone to come and get her.

A princess with tyrannical tendencies.

Silently, she holds up her arms, wanting to be picked up.

“Good morning, little one,” I say in Russian.

She presses her face into my neck.

“Can you say, good morning, Papa?”

A slow little sigh warms my skin before she mumbles a half-heartedDobroye utro, papochkathat runs together.

“How about some breakfast?”

That gets a silent nod.

“How did you sleep?”

No answer.

Inessa is not a morning person.

I change her diaper, but she whines at the idea of getting dressed, so I leave her in her PJs for breakfast.

As we step into the hallway, my father opens the bedroom door. His hair is standing on end. “Dobroye utro.”

And then he mumbles something about coffee.

None of us are morning people.

If I didn’t have some basic adult needs that couldn’t be met any other time of the day, I’d probably be as silent as the two of them, but orgasms have a way of kickstarting me better than caffeine.

My dad opens the baby gate at the top of the stairs, and we file down to the kitchen. Inessa doesn’t let go of my neck until I get her a sippy cup of milk. Then I find some blueberries for us to share. Yesterday, raspberries caused a meltdown for beingwrong, so I don’t want to risk those again.

“She needs bacon,” my father mutters as I put three blueberries on Inessa’s tray.

I love my parents.

I am grateful to my parents.

I am tired of explaining toddler food preferences to them when they spend as much or more time with her as I do, especially to my dad. My mom at least can read my body language and tries to keep the peace.

Also, she has the magic ability to talk Inessa into trying new things, or having a bite of something she doesn’t enjoy, like bacon. I do not have that ability and neither does my father. And a day that starts with a tantrum is twice as long as one that starts with a quiet, peaceful breakfast.

Tension crawls up my back as the coffee maker hisses its way through an espresso.

But when my father goes to the fridge and pulls out the bacon and eggs, I need to say something. “Maybe wait for Mama, yeah?”

“She’s sleeping.”

I frown. My mom never sleeps in. “What’s wrong? Is she sick?”

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