Page 76 of Gross Misconduct

“Again, I’m not going to paint. Just hang. I won’t even use a chair.” I bat my eyes at her and use the full force of my masculine wiles. I may be dudes only, but she doesn’t have to know that. “The last thing I want to do is make your job any tougher, Amy. I haven’t seen my nieces in the longest time. I promise if I cause a ruckus, you can crack one of these pots over my head and toss me into the street.”

Amy giggles at that. Like tug of war, I pull her mood toward camp counselor and away from maître d’.

“Okay. I’ll make this one exception. But I’ll be watching you. No sitting in a chair.” She holds the tablet against her chest, perhaps trying to draw my attention to her rack.

“You got it, drill sergeant!” I give her a salute, which elicits another giggle. Griffin rolls his eyes.

The girls run back to us, each holding an identical gray vase. An “artistic coordinator,” a guy my age in a magenta apron that gives me Ferguson’s PTSD, sets the girls and Griffin up at a table with paint. There’s no Frozen-themed vase. Instead, the coordinator tells them to use their imagination, which does not go over well with the girls. Tears immediately follow.

“I thought there were specific things you could paint of Disney characters,” Griffin whispers to the coordinator.

“No. I’m sorry. All pottery is a blank canvas to be filled by imagination!” he says, assuming that saying “imagination” over and over will trigger something in the girls.

“Crap,” Griffin mutters under his breath. “I thought you guys did that.”

The coordinator shakes his head no. The girls’ cries intensify, creating a huge spotlight on us. I can feel eyes on Griffin from other parents. Big hockey man has no idea how to handle children, they’re probably thinking. I turn to Griffin, about to suggest that we should go since the girls are so upset.

He squats down, rips a paper towel off the spool on the table, and wipes at the girls’ eyes, ignoring every single sideways glance.

“I wanted to make an Elsa pot,” June says between sniffly sobs.

“I know, sweet pea. But what about this? What if we paint a pretty vase for your ice castle?” He rests his hands on June’s and Annabelle’s shoulders. “You girls are going to have a massive ice castle, and it’s going to be empty. It needs to be furnished and decorated. I’ve seen Elsa’s ice castle, and she has no decorations. Nothing on the bookshelves or on end tables or window sills.”

“Whyisit so empty?” Annabelle wonders.

“Do you want your ice castle to be empty like that?” Griffin asks, his voice animated like he’s giving the sales pitch of his life.

June and Annabelle shake their heads no.

“I want to paint a blue and purple pot to look like ice,” says June.

“And Annabelle, what if you painted yours with yellow and orange?”

“They can look nice next to each other.” Annabelle’s eyes shine with possibility. And just as fast as she and June devolved into crying fits, they sit down at the table, gather their painting supplies, and get to work.

Quiet takes over the table, and I’m quietest of them all. I am stunned into motherfucking silence. Did I just watch a guy nail a shot into the top left corner of the net from the center of the rink?

Griffin stands beside me, beaming down at his daughters.

“That was…incredible. You are Dad AF.”

“Thanks?”

“How did you do that? I was ready to bolt,” I say.

“Parenting is the act of subtly convincing kids to do things and getting them to assume it was their idea.”

It’s official. This man parents as well as he eats ass.

Griffin squats down to the kid-sized chair he’s forced to sit in. His big butt is no match for the furniture. It’s like balancing a basketball on a toothpick. He hunches over the pottery table with the paint supplies as if he could swallow them in one bite. It becomes quickly apparent that the girls don’t have the attention spans or artistic prowess to make their visions come to life. The adults will need to help out.

“Hey June, can Jack borrow your chair?” Griffin asks.

June hops off her stool and brushes it off with a clean paintbrush. She pats the seat twice.

The four of us work on painting their vases. Annabelle goes for yellow and orange stripes, while June is looking for something more chaotic, more Jackson Pollack-y.

“What’s this ice castle you girls keep talking about?” I finally ask. At first, I thought it was imaginary.

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