Page 47 of Push

I ripped off another wad of paper towels, dropped to my knees, and got to work mopping up the mess splattered over the kitchen floor.

What. A. Morning.

Wake-up time, cuddles, changing Noah’s diaper, and stuffing his chubby butt in a onesie had been easy peasy. I’d done that routine a thousand times. Everything had tracked like clockwork until I’d hit the note scrawled in Gwen’s daily planner.

7.30 a.m. – Breakfast Fruit.

Feeding the little dude some fruit was a no-brainer, right?

Wrong.

I’d plopped Noah in his highchair, pulled out his favorite bowl with the monkeys on it, filled it with blueberries, and mashed them flat so he could scoff them down. He’d taken one look at the blueberries, and it was on like Donkey Kong.

The bowl—bam!Squeeze ya later!

Blueberries were out. Something else had been in his sights. Huffing baby grunts, he’d strained forward in his highchair, chubby fingers snatching for the fruit bowl. After getting the stink eye for holding up an avocado, I’d figured out he wanted a banana.

Awesome. Ten points to Team Daddy, right?

Wrong.

World War Fruit had raged on because I’d made the mistake of cutting the banana into chunks.Bam!The bowl had landed back on the floor, and the wails had started. Noah preferred the yellow menacewhole.

Once his pudgy fingers had curled around his peeled banana, the tears had stopped, but even now, he kept a wary gaze on me.

“Your ’nana is safe, NoBo.” I palmed his fuzzy head. “Promise.”

I unclipped the pen from Gwen’s planner and struck a line through “breakfast fruit.” What was next? Gwen had mapped out the entire day.

Baby Rhyme Time — local library.

Morning tea.

Swimming lesson.

Lunch.

Afternoon nap.

Stroller Squad.

What the hell was Stroller Squad?

I reached over and tickled Noah’s foot. “For a little dude who can’t talk yet, you sure have a hectic social calendar,” I joked.

He stared at me with big eyes.

Ouch. Tough crowd.“You miss your mama?”

He blinked.

“Yeah, me too.” I rested my chin on my fist and watched him gum his banana. “She’s pretty awesome, your mama. She gives the best hugs. I used to cuddle with her and watch TV shows about an old lady who solved murder mysteries. Your mama always guessed the murderer in about a second, but she never spoiled the ending for me.”

The weight of a simple memory dragged me down. I slumped on the stool next to Noah’s highchair.

He held out his banana. “Ba?”

His pudgy fist was squeezing my heart, and not just his banana. He was the best little dude. Grinning, I leaned over and pretended to gobble a bit off the end. He snatched it back with a giggle.

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