I look at the princess comb. “What?”
“Show her how combing your hair doesn't hurt. Then she'll be more likely to try it.”
“There is no way that will work.”
“AAAAAAIIIIIIEEEEEEEE!”
“And your current approach will?”
I lift my hand with the comb in it, spines down, and make sure to catch Ellie's eye.
She says, “Uncadoo comb.”
I nod. “I'm combing my hair. See?” I move the princess comb down my hair from scalp to end, making a mental note to have Gina schedule a haircut for me sooner than usual. Did Amanda's pregnancy make my hair grow faster?
“Comb Uncadoo.”
“I am.”
“WAN COMB!!! AIIIIIIEEEEEEE!”
Yet another woman completely and utterly confusing me.
“I think,” Amanda shouts over the fracas, “she wants to comb your hair.”
For the first time all evening, Chuckles appears. He's Shannon's old cat, Lucifer himself shoved into fifteen pounds of furry beast, and he looks at me with half-lidded eyes that clearly say, Sucker.
I lift the comb from my scalp and bend down, offering it to Ellie. “You want to comb Uncle Andrew's hair?”
She snatches the comb, then lasers in on Chuckles. “Comb kitty!”
By my estimate, Shannon's cat is pushing fifteen or sixteen, which isn't ancient by cat standards, but he's no spring chicken. But his legs sprint like Vince is on his ass, threatening to make him drink a melted beef-heart-fat energy drink with a grape-seed extract anti-mold chaser.
“You can't comb the kitty, Ellie,” I patiently explain, taking my role as morality shaper for my niece seriously.
“AAAAIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEE!”
“She really doesn't like being told no,” Amanda says under her breath as I wipe imaginary blood off my earlobe from the eardrum rupture I'm certain just happened.
Chuckles runs into her bedroom. I see a giant stuffed animal in a corner wobble a bit. That cat is smart. I eye Amanda, who is looking more and more elephantine these days.
At the rate Ellie's going, I might need to take cover behind my wife.
“Want to comb my hair?” Amanda asks. Ellie's scream turns into a single sniffle, then a huge grin as she toddles over to Amanda and shoves the comb in her hair so hard that Amanda gasps.
“Practice,” she mutters.
“Practice?”
“For our boys.”
I snort. “We never combed our mom's hair. Put a frog in it? Sure. Comb? Never.”
“I think,” she grunts as Ellie yanks the comb down Amanda's waves, “I'll take a frog over this.” She reaches for Ellie's wrist and gently grasps it. “Ellie? Can you comb softer?”
“Soff,” Ellie repeats.
“Yes. Gentle.”
Ellie's downward stroke yields about 20 strands of hair in the comb as Amanda grimaces.
I look at the clock. Forty-four minutes to bedtime.
Little kids can't read clocks, so how would she know the actual bedtime? We can aim for 6:45, right?
“What's next?” I ask Amanda.
“We still have to comb her hair. Then read some books. Then brush teeth.”
“We only have forty-four minutes to do all that.”
“You're watching the clock?”
“AAAAIIIIIIIIIEEEEEE!” Ellie screams as the comb hits a knot in Amanda's hair.
“Damn right,” I say as I scoop my niece up, careful to disengage her hand from the comb first, and we go into her bedroom. I plunk her on the chair and give her a raspberry on the tummy.
The screams turn to giggles. Still ear shattering, but qualitatively different.
A long time ago, Declan told me the secret to dealing with his two nephews, Jeffrey and Tyler, was to talk about poop and turn everything into a game. The poop part won't work with Ellie, but the second part fits: turn everything we do into a game.
Just then, Chuckles makes a lazy appearance.
And Ellie pounces.
You need to understand that while Chuckles loves my brother, he hates me. Loathes me. It's as if Declan intentionally turned his cat against me as sublimation for his jealousy of my success.
Yeah, I know it sounds far fetched.
But my brother is that disturbed when it comes to competing with me.
Ellie grabs Chuckles' tail, and while I know the cat's not going to hurt her, I go into protective mode.
“SPPPHHHT!” Chuckles emotes, glaring at me as if I'm the one shoving the comb into his back.
“No!” I say firmly, carefully lifting Ellie's comb-clutching hand off the poor cat, while Amanda works on her tail hand.
“UNCADOO!” Ellie wails, as if I've wounded her.
Chuckles shoots me another killer look. If he had fingers, two would be pointed at me, then at his eyes. Jimmy Hoffa may have been offed by this cat's ancestors.
“AAAAAIIIIIIEEEEE!” Ellie screams, the comb held against her chest. “Wan Chuck!”
“How much beer can I reasonably drink and still be responsible for a child?” I ask my wife.
“This question reminds me of New Year's Eve in 2018.”
“Hey! We weren't babysitting, and I could still walk after all those shots with Vince.”
“You were the child that night, Andrew, and the answer is three. Three beers.”
Ellie abruptly stops crying, holds the comb out to me, and says, “Comb.”
Giving Amanda a wary look, I start combing her damp hair as Amanda gives her a doll to play with. One minute later, we're done.
Storm over.
“I know you want to check on work,” Amanda whispers. “I'll handle reading time.”
“What? No! That's the best part.”
“Shannon says they read Goodnight Moon every night, then two other books. I'll do the two, and you come in for Goodnight Moon.”
“What's that?”
She reads the first line of the book. Some piece of my heart starts to wake up.
I recite the second line with her and she gives me an appreciative look.
“You do know children's books!”
“No. Not really. Just a memory of my mom and dad.”
“And dad?”
“Yeah. When he was home around bedtime–which was rare–if Mom read us that book, he'd say “hush” for the role of the quiet old lady. Dad's head would pop into the room suddenly, the word “hush” would come out in his baritone, and we'd giggle.”
“We?”
“Me. Declan. Maybe Terry? I think he was too old by then.”
“How old are you in the memory?”
I shake my head. “No idea. But young.”
“Book!” Ellie gasps, toddling across her bedroom to the bookshelf. She begins flinging books off the shelf as if she’s looking for something.
Was Amanda’s offer a test? If I take her up on the offer to go work, do I fail somehow? It's certainly more appealing to sit with them and read picture books, the experience a glimpse into our future as parents, but reality needs to be acknowledged, too.
I'm the CEO of a major company.
I have responsibilities.
For the next twenty minutes, I triage my texts and emails, answering the hair-on-fire situations, amazed at how quickly I can work when I know time is limited.