Page 18 of Your Hand in Mine

“Listen, I’m getting calls from school that her snack bag is filled with chips and sugary juice, and she’s refusing to eat the food harvested from the school’s garden.”

“Harvested?” She snorts. “If you ask me, I think that school is a crunchy granola ridiculous nightmare.”

“Nope…Didn’t ask.”

“So what am I supposed to be now, a babysitter or an organic farmer?”

“I’m just asking you to try to push the healthier stuff on Libby. I’m guilty of feeding her crap too, but I’m trying to make an effort.”

“I saw your effort in the garbage can this morning. I’ll go out on a limb and assume that broccoli was on the menu last night?”

“Salmon, too. And yes, while it didn’t go over very well, I’m not giving up. No more fries, no more chicken nuggets, no more mac and cheese.”

“Good Lord. My kids grew up on that, and do I need to remind you that both of my sons went to ivy league schools?”

“First off, chicken nuggets weren’t even around back then, and second off…”

“What?”

Nope. I’m not going to remind her that attending an ivy league school and actually graduating from said school are two entirely different things.

“Nothing. I just want her to be eating better foods. It’s good for her.”

“I’ll try my best.”

She says this with no conviction whatsoever.

Maureen is a salty old lady who is wise, kind-hearted and very set in her ways. And she’s got me by the balls right now.

She’s basically been my saving grace, the only person I’ve trusted around Olivia since her mother’s been gone. She lives across the street, so the set-up is more than convenient, but it’s not optimal. Libby is safe in her care, but that’s because she plops her in front of the television and lets her watch cartoons all day.

And why the hell is no one responding to that ad I posted? You’d think college kids would be lining up around the block for a gig like this. I pay well, I’m easy to work for and Olivia is a dream.

Maybe I should have asked Ed post the flyer in every department, not just in the education building. But that feels like settling, and I don’t want to settle where my daughter is concerned. I have this image in my mind of an aspiring teacher spending quality one-on-one time with my daughter.

Maureen is like the anti-Mary Poppins. There’s no pep in her step, she’s undisciplined, and she’s basically driving through her golden years on cruise control. And Maureen has already raised her own children. She’s entitled, I get it. But I want better for Olivia. I want Mary Poppins.

I’ll ask him tonight at that ridiculous fundraising event he conned me into attending.

Crap. That means I’ll have to ask Maureen if she’s available to babysit again. At least I can leave after Olivia’s bedtime, that way I can be sure she won’t be hopped up on ice cream watching television on the couch when I get home.

* * *

Yeah, the best laid plans and all that.

I had a crazy day at the shop working on a custom order to begin with, then had the added stress of being pulled in to participate on a few conference calls to trouble shoot problems with my team of engineers. I always feel like I’m being pulled in a million different directions, but with the race season gearing up to go, the pressure has been constant these past few weeks.

The chicken I planned to prepare is still sitting in the refrigerator raw, and the corn I was going to grill on the cob sits on the counter still wrapped in its husk. I took the easy road, swapped it out for mac and cheese. I remind myself that I did toss some frozen peas in while the pasta was cooking, but as I pull on my sports coat getting ready to run out on my daughter, I know I’ve messed up yet again.

“No ice cream, got it? No cheese crackers. No juice.”

Maureen looks to Olivia. “Are you writing this all down, Libby?”

She’s mocking me. Again. And I get it. She’s told me straight out she’s an old dog not looking to learn any new tricks. But seriously, is feeding the kid an apple and putting her to bed on time asking too much?

Sighing, I cave in like I always do. “Be good for Maureen, honey, ok?”

Olivia barely looks over her shoulder as she’s opening the freezer in search of her mint chocolate chip ice cream. “Love you, Daddy. Bye.”

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