Page 71 of Pick-Up
“Hi, Mom!” She grins.
“Are you having fun, Net?”
“Totally. It’s a blast!”
“Getting along with Henry?”
“Oh, totally. Also, remember I told you about that small-moments writing unit we started? Guess who got theirs read aloud by the teacher?!”
“Nettie did!” Bart exclaims.
“Ugh, Bart!” she growls, turning to him. “I was trying to tell Mommy. That was my news to share!”
Bart shrugs. “Oops.”
She rolls her eyes. “Anyway. As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted…”
Until I had Bart, I never understood when parents complained that they could never get their kids to share about their schooldays. Nettie has always shared every detail. And I mean—Every. Single. Detail. Which is to say that she spends the next ten minutes delivering a monologue about the poor behavior of the boys in her class, the kickball game she rocked at recess and the drama between two of her girlfriends over jobs for a babysitters club they’re starting (not that they have any clients). She is about to tell me the entire plot of the animated otter movie she, Bart and Henry just watched when Celeste pops her head in and tells the kids dinner is ready.
“We should go!” says Nettie, already getting up. “C’mon, Bart.”
“Wait, one thing,” I say. “Have you gotten to do any of the fun things on your list? Have you had Jamie’s famous popcorn?”
“No, actually,” says Nettie, frowning. “We haven’t seen Jamie at all since he picked us up on the first day. I guess he’s away or something.” Then she leans down toward the phone, makes her eyes wide and whispers, “It’s a bit weird.”
Alarm bells are going off in my head, but I’ve got to respect Celeste’s boundaries. At least for today.
“Okay,” I say. “Hey, Nettie. Be easy with Celeste, okay?”
“Of course, Mom! I know how hard it is,” she says, shrugging.
“How hard what is?”
“To be a woman alone!” she says. “Love you!”
With that mic drop, she goes off to find Henry, leaving Bart behind. He smiles at me and lumbers toward the phone, mischief in his eyes. I know that look. He is aching to press the red button (a.k.a. hang up on me).
“I love you, Bart!” I say, before he cuts me off.
“Love you, too, Mommy! Oh,” he says, his finger hovering above the button. “I forgot to ask—”
“Yes?”
“Are you having a good trip?”
I melt. I am a puddle. It’s too much cuteness to bear. It occurs to me that I have underestimated my children. In fact, for the past few years, I have not been so entirely alone.
I get off the phone and text Celeste.
I love you. Thank you. I hope you have a wipe nearby to clean Bart’s grimy fingerprints off your phone. Who knows where they’ve been. And, when you’re ready to share, I’m here to talk.
All I get is a thumbs-up.
That will have to be enough for now.
When I get up the courage and emerge from my room, the food has already arrived. I am hungry like the wolf. Ethan—well, more likely Michael, who has come and gone—has spread our dinner out elegantly on the patio table.
“I thought it might be nice to eat outside.” Ethan gestures toward the setup.
