Page 38 of Pregnant in Plaid
"I'm not humoring you. I'm eating cereal." I crunch another handful. "Though the mixing bowl is a choice."
"More Froot Loops fit."
"Can't argue with that."
We eat in comfortable silence for a moment.
"Thank you," she says quietly. "For not making me feel like a disaster."
"You're not a disaster."
"I'm unemployed, pregnant, and eating cereal from a mixing bowl past bedtime."
"You're between jobs, growing a human, and practicing optimal Froot Loop consumption," I correct. "It's all about perspective."
She laughs, and I'm already planning tomorrow's Froot Loop restock.
"Go to bed," I tell her gently. "The Froot Loops will be here tomorrow."
"Promise?"
"On my honor as a former SEAL."
She rolls her eyes but puts the mixing bowl in the sink. "Goodnight, Trace."
"Night, Patrice."
I watch her waddle—definitely waddling now—back toward the guest room, and I'm already mentally making a note to stock up on Froot Loops tomorrow.
Friday morning, I find her reorganizing my kitchen.
Every cabinet is open, contents spread across counters, and she's on a stepstool reaching for the top shelf.
"Whoa!" I'm across the kitchen in three steps, hands on her waist. "What the hell are you doing up there?"
She doesn't even look down. "Your kitchen makes no sense."
"Get down. Now." I help her off the stool, heart hammering. "You're seven months pregnant. No ladders, no stools, no?—"
"It's a stepstool, Trace. I'm not climbing Everest."
"I don't care if it's six inches off the ground." I movethe stool away from her. "You need something from a high shelf, you ask me."
She crosses her arms. "Your kitchen makes no sense."
"My kitchen makes perfect sense."
"You keep plates farthest from the dishwasher. Your spices aren't alphabetized."
"Spices are supposed to be alphabetized?"
"Yes! And your pots should be hanging, not in a bottom cabinet." She points to the unused pot rack. "Why have a rack if you won't use it?"
"Because I put the pots in the cabinet."
"But it's inefficient!"
"Maybe I like inefficiency."
