Page 133 of Pregnant in Plaid
"Done," I announce, lifting her up. "Clean diaper, minimal casualties."
"Define minimal," Patrice calls fromthe kitchen.
"Only one wipe ended up on the floor instead of in the trash."
"That's actually pretty good for you."
Brooklyn makes another pterodactyl sound and grabs my beard, which has become her favorite toy. I've learned to just accept that my facial hair is community property now.
My phone buzzes on the counter. Text from Gage.
Gage: Picnic at the lake. 2pm. Bring the baby and whatever weird organic food Patrice makes you eat now.
I type back.
Me: We eat normal food.
Gage: You had quinoa last week.
Me: That was one time.
Gage: Tessa made cookies. Normal cookies. With sugar and everything.
Me: We'll be there.
"Gage and Tessa want to do a picnic," I tell Patrice. "Lake. Two o'clock. Apparently there are cookies involved."
She closes her laptop. "I should finish this budgetanalysis for Marnie."
"The town budget can wait. Tessa's cookies cannot."
"You make a compelling argument."
"I'm very persuasive."
"You're very food-motivated."
"I'm a man of simple needs: my daughter, my girlfriend, and baked goods."
Patrice stands up and stretches. She's wearing one of my flannel shirts over leggings, her hair in a messy bun, no makeup, and she's never looked better. Six months of motherhood looks good on her. She's looser now, less wound up about schedules and plans. Still color-codes Brooklyn's clothes, but she doesn't panic when things don't go according to the spreadsheet anymore.
"Let me get Brooklyn's bag," she says.
"I already packed it."
She stops. "You packed the diaper bag?"
"Diapers, wipes, extra clothes, sunscreen, that hat she hates, three toys, snacks, and the sleep sack she can't sleep without."
"Who are you and what did you do with Trace?"
"I'm Dad Trace. Organized. Plans ahead. Even labels the snack containers."
"Did you pack enough diapers?"
"Six."
"We'll be gone three hours. Pack eight."
