I gently dig the tips of my fingers into her ribs, tickling her. “Slow your roll, Tater Tot. Let’s tackle today one step at a time, okay?”
“Okay, Mama,” she replies through peals of laughter.
Tatum begs and pleads to help with the batter, and as usual when letting a three-year-old work in the kitchen, more ends up on the counter and the floor than in the waffle maker. All the same, we end up with four perfect, fluffy waffles that we top with whipped cream, strawberries, and sweet, sticky syrup.
I send my little girl to wash her hands and brush her teeth while I quickly clean up the kitchen. Once I’m finished, I lay out her clothes before quickly working through my morning routine of washing my face, brushing my teeth and tossing my hair up into a messy-mom-bun—I call it a mom bun because it so isn’t one of those cute buns you see girls on Instagram and Pinterest rocking—before throwing on a pair of drawstring linen shorts and a loose-fitting tank.
We exit our bedrooms simultaneously, only Tatum is not dressed in the outfit I laid out for her. Nope. Not by a long shot. My little girl is decked out in her frilliest dress-up dress, rain boots, and a tiara—with a smear of pink, glittery lipstick from cheek to cheek to finish her look.
“Don’t I wook like a pwincess, Mama?”
“You absolutely do.” I do my best to stifle my grin. I swear, this kid…she marches to the beat of her own bongo—because Lord knows, a drum would be too basic. “But do you really want to risk getting your royally beautiful outfit all dirty?”
Tatum taps her chin thoughtfully. “I guess not.” Her little shoulders slump.
“I’ll tell you what, you go change into the outfit I laid out for you. You can still wear your rain boots, and I’ll do your hair up all pretty with your tiara. Bonus points if you wipe off the lipstick.”
“But Mama! It’s sooooo pretty!”
“You’re right, it is very pretty. But I think I have a color that would match better, okay?” She nods and dashes back to her bedroom, and I do the same in hunt of my barely pink lip gloss.
We once again meet in the hall. “Dis better?” she asks, pouting slightly.
“Much better. C’mon and I’ll braid your hair.”
Tatum bounces on her toes. “Like Elsa?”
“Yup, just like Elsa.”
Ten minutes later, Tatum is admiring her braid in the little entryway mirror. Finally, after checking it from every possible angle, she shoots me a thumbs-up and what I can only assume is a wink. It’s all I can do to suppress a laugh, because the expression on her face makes her look like a hokey used-car salesman you’d see on a billboard somewhere.
* * *
We decide to take advantage of the good weather and walk to the park. Well, I walk. Tatum gallops, hops, and twirls her way down the sidewalk. Her enthusiasm garners us a few stares, coupled with friendly waves from others milling about outside. Being the little ham she is, Tatum eats up the attention.
At the park, Tatum goes straight for the big slide, climbing the rungs of the ladder fearlessly and then launching herself down the shoot. My sweet, brave girl. After about ten minutes she tires of the slide and sets off for the merry-go-round.
“Mama! Come spin me!”
Five spins later, she says she is too dizzy to keep going and we make our way to the swings. When she sees the tandem swing is open, she shouts with glee. “We swing togedder?”
“Sure thing, Tater Tot.”
About an hour later, we have made our rounds through all of the playground equipment. “You ready for lunch?”
“Hmm.” Tatum taps the little dimple in her chin. “I stapose.”
“You suppose? Well, what sounds yummy?”
“Ice cream,” she deadpans.
“Try again kid.”
“Fine. Grilled cheeses?”
“Now that sounds like a plan.”
* * *
Thirty minutes later, we’re both stuffed from our grilled cheeses. Tatum opted for the kid-friendly American cheese and white bread classic while I went with Gouda on sourdough accompanied by bacon, tomatoes, and garlic aioli.
“I eated it all.” Tatum looks at me expectantly while patting her little belly.
“I see that,” I say through a smile.
“So, do I gets ice cream?”
“That depends.”
“On what, Mama? I’ll do anyfing!”
“Anything? Oh, my…” I steeple my fingers under my chin, rubbing the tips against one another like a movie villain. Tatum looks at me with her beautiful green eyes. “How about you help me pick up your toys when we get home and no complaining at bath time?”
My girl nods her head furiously, almost to the point of looking like a bobblehead. “Yes! Yes! I can do that!”
I beam and hold my hand out to her, helping her down from her chair. “Then let’s get to it, pretty girl.”
We hop over to Scoops, which is conveniently located right next door. After placing our orders, Tatum skips over to our usual table near the door while I linger at the counter, waiting for our order. I keep my eyes on her while listening out for our number to be called. By the time I have our sweet treats in hand, she’s all but drooling.
Two bites in and my phone starts buzzing in my purse. I fish it out and check the screen, finding two new texts from Jenny, my work bestie. She and I started at Bayside around the same time, and being the new girls, we stuck together like glue. The fact that she’s ballsy as all get-out, fun, and an all-around good person certainly doesn’t hurt.
I press my right index finger to the sensor and unlock my phone before opening her message.
Jenny: Staff meeting Monday morning. 8 AM. Hiss, boo!
Ugh. Great.
Me: Thanks for letting me know. Any idea what’s up?
Jenny: I’ve heard a few rumors about us getting new owners.
Ugh. Double great.
Bayside Café is a local institution and so much more than your average café. Or at least it was. The food used to be over-the-top small plates that were busting with flavors from all over the globe.
Growing up, it was owned by my longtime crush’s—a.k.a. my brother’s best friend—grandparents. From about age ten to fifteen, I imagined Alden and me getting married and running it together. From sixteen to seventeen, I became determined to make him see me. And he did. Through beer goggles. Our one and only hook-up ended with me knocked up and him with no memory of us even sleeping together, much less that he was my first…so no happy ending for us—obviously.
Even though there’ll never be an Alden and me, my dreams of running Bayside persisted. Especially after his grandma passed away and his pops was moved to an assisted living community. The café was handed down to his uncle, who sold it—the rat bastard. Now, we serve deli sandwiches and soups of the day and fruit cups. And if we’re getting sold again…well, there go my dreams of working my way up to running the place one day. Hell, I’ll be lucky if the alleged new owner evens keeps the staff.
I tuck my phone back into my purse just as Tatum hops down from her chair. “All done! You ready?”
I scoop up the last bite of my mint chip and swallow it down. “Totally ready,” I say with much more bravado than I’m feeling, and together we set off back toward the house.