Page 2 of My Wife
Maybe doing the chicken dance was fun for him. I’ll do just about anything to keep him from crying.
“No, no, no. We’ll flap, flap all morning. This rooster will make us breakfast and get ready.” As he watches me flap my arms once again, his expression clears and he copies me.
I release my breath, relieved that we’re not going to re-experience the first few days of him living here. It was traumatizing—for both of us.
The truth is I don’t know what I’m doing. In fact, I don’t know where this child came from. I mean, I knowthatpart, but when he showed up on my doorstep, I had no idea what to do.
Still haven’t figured it out.
I’ve been trying to remain normal, which means keeping the surprise addition to my household from my team, coach, family, and everyone except my lawyer until we get our footing. Or ourstruttinglike a pair of poultry, as the case may be, this morning.
I make eggs and steak for breakfast. Meal of men and champions … not chickens.
Finally, out of a two-week penalty box, I’ll need strength and fortitude.
My brother Hendrix says I’m chasing an elusive hockey high. That it’s never enough. No stat is good enough. No award. No accolade.
My answer: I’ll let him know when I get there. I’m so close. Or I was.
He wouldn’t understand, but I have my reasons for going as hard as I do.
A heavy sigh escapes from deep in my chest.
I take the eggs off the skillet and pull the steak from the grill, serving both of us.
Some of the other guys on the team have home chefs or meal delivery. They say I should too. I don’t keep a suggestion box nor did I send out a survey. How I do things is fine.
Bringing more people into my life leads to more complications.
More debt to pay.
At first, the kid just picked at his food. In contrast, I have a big appetite in the morning, and like everything else, he’s started copying me.
Except for the crying. I don’t do that. Ever.
After cleaning up, I say, “Kid, brush your teeth and get ready to visit Mrs. Kirby.”
He looks at me blankly.
“Remember her? She’s the one with the dog.”
He stares at me in reply.
I show him to the bathroom and then rush to mine because recent experience has proven that if I don’t shower and get ready fast, I’ll find the contents of the foaming hand soap pump bottle in the toilet—wouldn’t put it back in the container even if I could. Or the hallway wall redecorated with marker—yeah, the permanent kind. Yesterday, I turned my back for two seconds—okay, it was more like two minutes—and then noticed it was quiet. Too quiet. A trail of what could’ve been mistaken for raccoon footprints dipped in shaving cream led me to where he’d coated the window with the stuff and was drawing circles in it. Guess he couldn’t keep his finger off the dispense button once he got it working.
Gone are the days of taking luxuriously long showers before and after practice. My thoughts scramble because I can’t let myself think about how my game schedule is going to work with the kid.
With the bathroom door cracked open, after I shut off the water, something slams.
Wrapping a towel around my waist, I hurry to the hall, only to find the kid where I left him, standing in the bathroom, his hands by his sides, nothing out of place. Quickly assessing the rest of the loft, I figure I must’ve been mistaken.
I seriously need to sleep better. Now I’m hearing things.
This also means he didn’t brush his teeth or get ready like I asked. When do children learn these skills?
Pressing my lips together, I race back to my room, throw on some clothes, run a comb through my hair, and grab my toothbrush.
For what seems like the hundredth time, I show him how to put on the paste and then what to do once it’s in his mouth.
