She whines and snuggles against me, her head on my shoulder, her hot breath against my neck. She’s deadweight in my arms, all skinny arms and legs. I rub her back, can feel the tiny bumps of her spine. God, it seems like just yesterday she was a baby, round and squishy soft, the rolls of her legs and arms settling on each other, making her look like the Michelin Man.
Now she’s less baby and more real person.
A mini, real person with thoughts and opinions and absolutely no interest in learning how to use the toilet.
I kiss the top of her head. “Want some juice?”
“Juice,” she repeats. She wiggles, trying to get closer to me, her toes digging into my rib cage. “Juice!”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
We walk into the kitchen and I get a sippy cup and matching lid out from a lower cabinet, then open the refrigerator. Taylor keeps her head on my shoulder, wraps my hair around and around and around her finger, the way she has since she was nine months old. It comforts her, holding on to my crazy, frizzy hair.
That’s me. A walking, talking security blanket.
Glad I’m able to do something useful with my life.
It’s a production, getting a toddler juice while holding that toddler, your hair in her death grip. I pour apple juice into the cup, cross to the sink to water it down, then heft Taylor higher. Holding the cup in my left hand—the one under her butt—I twist the cap on with my right.
Mission accomplished.
“Here you go,” I say.
She takes it, her head still on my shoulder, hair still in her other hand. “Juice,” she whispers, a solemn prayer to the nectar of the gods as she holds the cup up like a holy sacrifice.
I bow my head—seems like the appropriate thing to do. “Amen.”
She guzzles it. I mean, the child chugs it down in mere moments then shoves the cup at my face. “Mowah.”
She hasn’t quite mastered rs.
“More please,” I say.
She’s now pressing the cup against my cheek, pushing my head in the opposite direction of the hand still holding my hair. “Mowah please.”
I take the cup from her before she rips out a chunk of the hair she loves so and repeat the juice-getting process. While she’s drinking this second cup, I put the bottle back in the fridge and take out the bowl of pizza dough and set it in a sunny spot on the counter to warm up.
Curled up on the couch, Zoe’s reading something on her phone, smiling. She’s still in her black pants and red Top-Mart polo, her light brown hair falling out of the French braid I’d given her this morning, pieces clinging to her neck, sticking out above her ears. The nubby material of the couch left its imprint on her cheek and her mascara is smudged.
Ah, the life of a Jones girl. So much glamour. Such excitement.
“What’s got you so happy?” I ask.
“Just a text from Rob.”
“Who’s Rob?”
She’s still focused on her phone. Still smiling. “A guy I matched up with last night.”
“Matched up with? You’re on a hookup app?”
“Please. I don’t need an app for a hookup,” she tells me, as if being hit on by guys at the bar all the time is a proud accomplishment. “It’s a dating app.”
I switch Taylor to my other hip. “You really think you’re going to meet Prince Charming on a hookup app?”
“Dating app,” she corrects in a singsong tone. “And maybe.” She shrugs. “You don’t know unless you try, right?”
Uh…wrong. Certain things are set in stone and all the effort in the world isn’t going to change them.
Then again, Zoe’s always been the optimistic Jones sister.
Even after being abandoned by her dad (Devyn, Zoe and I all have different fathers, the same backstory and Mom’s last name), getting pregnant at sixteen, then dumped by the father of her baby, and never having a guy stick around longer than a few months hasn’t put her off the opposite sex.
My sister’s addicted to love. She’s either chasing after it, falling into it or recovering from losing it.
But at least she’s finally moving on from Ethan the Ass. Four weeks of her moping around heartbroken was more than enough for any of us. Devyn warned her that hooking up with her boss—although he isn’t, like, the boss boss at the store, he is assistant manager and, therefore, Zoe’s superior—was a mistake, but Zoe prefers to learn her lessons the hard way.
Hopefully this one will stick.
If only because Ethan broke things off with her so he could get back together with his on-again, off-again girlfriend and refuses to speak to Zoe unless it relates to—and this is a direct quote—Top-Mart business.
Hence his nickname.
“I’m going to shower,” I say, but when I try to hand Taylor over to Zoe, Taylor screeches like I’m about to drop her into an active volcano and clings to me, arms around my neck, legs around my waist and juice dripping steadily down my back. “Or I could stay sweaty and stinky for a little bit longer. No problem.”
Getting her way, Taylor loosens her grip on me and finishes her drink. When she’s done, she throws the cup onto the floor, looks me in my eyes and says, “Stinky.”
“She’s right,” Zoe says as I join her on the couch. “You’re pretty ripe.”
“Yeah? Then why don’t you peel your kid off me?”
Zoe sets her phone on the side table. Holds out her arms to Taylor. “Come sit with Mama.”
“No!” Taylor yells and turns her head away from Zoe. “No want you, Mama! Want Haddy!”
It’s nice to be someone’s favorite.
Even if that someone is sort of a terror.
Zoe shrugs and stretches, arms straight over her head, bare toes pointed, then stands. “Sorry I let her fall asleep. She refused to nap for Mrs. Richter and was so whiny I couldn’t take it.”
Mrs. Richter watches Taylor during the day, which is pretty much why Zoe tends bar five nights a week. To cover the cost of daycare.
“How long was she asleep for?” I ask.
“Maybe half an hour,” Zoe says, going into the kitchen for a ginger ale. She opens the can, takes a sip. “She should still go down for you tonight.”
I reach back and gently untangle my hair from Taylor’s fingers. Turn her so she’s sitting on my lap. “Is that right, baby girl? You going to go to bed on time tonight?”
She’s shaking her head before I even finish my question. No is a big part of our lives. Saying it almost constantly to Taylor: No touching this or that. No coloring on the furniture. No yanking the dog’s tail. Hearing it from her even more often: No, no, no!! complete with fall-on-the-floor, leg-kicking, body-thrashing tantrum.
Those are tons of fun.
“No bed, Haddy,” she tells me. “No.”
I give her a gentle squeeze because tiny, terrible-two terror or not, I’m crazy about her. “Okay, no bed. But how about hanging out with Mommy so Haddy can take a shower?”
And that’s what happens when you’re around a toddler all the time.
You start speaking in the third person.
Taylor wiggles off me. “I showah, too,” she says, shoving at her saggy diaper. “I showah with you, Haddy.”
“Great,” I say flatly. The past two years have taught me why, exactly, when my mom was still around, she used to spend so much time in the locked bathroom when Devyn, Zoe and I were little. That place is like a sanctuary, a tiny oasis—complete with waterfall if you turn on the shower—and a great place to hide when you live with anyone under the age of ten. “Just what I was hoping for.”