Page 71 of Overtime

The E is backwards,and the Y resembles the U, but that’s not what’s important. It’s the thought that counts. We’ll work on letters later. “This is wonderful! Daddy is going to love it so much!”

“Dada likes everything.”

I frown when he emphasizes the term he prefers for his father. It was cute when he was first learning to talk, but Rob and I have been making a concerted effort to subtly correct the babyish phrase before he starts kindergarten next year. For some odd reason, Robbie’s determined to hold onto it. It’s even getting to the point where he becomes offended when we use any other word.

“Of course, your father likes everything you do. He loves you. Is there some reason you don’t like the picture? I think it’s perfect.”

“That’s what Sasha said.” He bows his little head on his desk over top of his folded arms.

“Sasha didn’t see your picture, baby. You just made it.”

“Mooooooom,” he draws out like a miniature teenager. So much attitude sometimes. “Sasha said the Valentime she gave me was perfect. I made this one look the same.”

I should’ve known his suddenly sour mood had something to do with the infamous Sasha. The girl has had hearts in her eyes for my son since last year. He does not reciprocate her feelings.

“Robbie, sweetie, what have we talked about?” I struggle to crouch down beside his child-sized desk. For moments when I really want to get through to him, eye-to-eye conversation is best, but I am in serious danger right now of my knees giving out beneath my bulging center of gravity. “You do not have to like Sasha the way she likes you, but you must be kind, no matter what. Did you thank her for the Valentine she made you?”

“Yes,” he pouts.

“Well, can I see it?” I’m not sure how he managed to hide it since I picked him up from preschool this afternoon. The other contents from his holiday party came tumbling out of his backpack like an avalanche when I opened it.

He thrusts a smaller piece of paper at me wordlessly. Sure enough, stick figures of Sasha and Robbie hold hands, surrounded by hearts galore, glitter, and plenty of football stickers. It doesn’t escape my notice that the picture has a definite red and gold theme. Normally, that would be in line with the most romantic holiday of the year, but this little girl is a hard-core Gold Rushers fan. If she wasn’t four, I’d be concerned she was using Robbie to get to his dad.

I think Robbie might prefer that actually.

“This is…nice.”

He rolls his eyes. “It’s gross, Mom. She asked me to marry her.”

Okay, I’m going to have to have a talk with her mother. Crushes are one thing, but marriage proposals are crossing a line. “What did you say to her when she asked you that?”

“I told her I would puke my eyeballs out.”

Sometimes, parenting requires balance. Like now, for instance, when I rise to my feet as quickly as this little girl growing in my belly will allow, so I can turn around and hide my laughter. It’s amazing how quiet I’ve learned to be since becoming a mother.

Love at first sight, my son definitely does not suffer from.

When I think I’m composed enough to show my face, I turn around. “That’s not very nice. You could have said no gently without hurting her feelings.”

“I didn’t hurt her feelings,” he insists with his little arms crossed over his chest. Just like his father when he’s being serious. “She told me she would clean it up for me then kiss me better.”

Lord have mercy. I’m not even going to ask what his response was to that. Plausible deniability if I get a call from his teacher tomorrow.

“Okay, well, I think we’re ready for Daddy to get home now.”

Robbie glances around at the disaster in the family room. Worry shrouds his sweet face. “Maybe we should clean up.”

“Nope.” I smile at him, and this one isn’t the least bit fake. “We’ll clean it tomorrow. How about some cartoons while we wait for Daddy?”

“Okay!” He jumps up from his chair, everything else forgotten with the offer of one of his favorite pastimes that we don’t let him indulge in as often as he’d like. Which would be all day. Every day. Non-stop until I can’t get the ear worms out of my head.

I turn on the TV and set the guide to his favorite show while he clears a space on the couch, sliding the mess off like he suddenly doesn’t notice it’s not usually there.

By the time he’s thoroughly engrossed, I take stock of the damage. Arts and crafts supplies explode from their tidy cubbies near Robbie’s desk. Remnants of snacks litter the coffee table and fall onto the carpet. Muddy shoes and a damp coat are thrown in a corner. A trail of toys leads out of the room into the kitchen, where more disaster abounds. At last check, there was flour on nearly every surface, a tray of blackened cookies resting on the stove, and the scent of burnt rice hanging in the air. I don’t need a mirror handy to feel the thick layer of makeup spread across my face. My hair is so matted, it might take a full hour to get the tangles out, but it will all be well worth it.

For the past few weeks, the other preschool moms have been stressing about what to get their husbands for Valentine’s Day. Once a week we meet for coffee while the kids are in school. The moms are an eclectic group, but we have something in common—we can no longer mingle with the general population. Neither can our kids.

From high-powered attorneys to professional athletes to politicians, we’re all married to fame and money in some capacity. While the mothers I knew growing up considered weekly grocery store runs a chore—especially with young kids in tow—we have to have our food delivered to our homes or run the risk of the paparazzi spinning a typical toddler meltdown into a front-page article about child abuse in any number of gossip rags. So, we keep our heads down and stick together. We no longer have the freedom to swim outside this ocean we find ourselves in.

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