Page 24 of The Lake Escape
Izzy
I don’t know how long Brody’s been tugging on my arm, but it’s definitely too long for him. He’s grown impatient and he’s practically pulling me out of bed.OML, it’s too early for this.I roll over, eyes fluttering open, and I hear a frightened squeak that makes me bolt upright. Becca must have crawled into bed with me at some point during the night, and I inadvertently squished her. Without complaint, Becca grabs for her stuffed tiger and pulls the blankets over her head while I address Brody.
With a croaky voice, I ask, “Is everything okay? Is there an emergency?”
“I’m bored,” he says, as though this is a crisis that requires my immediate attention.
Becca nestles close to me. Clearly, the twins aren’t on the same page.
“Go back to bed,” I instruct.
“No,” says Brody, stomping his feet. “I won’t. I’m hungry and bored, and you’re the nanny.”
Oh, shit.I suppose he’s right. I suggest we go downstairs and do an art project.
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, Becca is out from under the covers. Clutching her tiger, sleepily rubbing her eyes, she says in the tiniest voice imaginable, “Me too?”
Of course, the answer is yes. These might be budding Van Goghs,and I certainly don’t want either of them to feel left out, or worse, wake Fiona with their pleading.
It’s 7:30A.M., I’m still in my pajamas, I’ve had no coffee, my hair has curled into a poodle’s coat, I’ve no idea what I’m doing, and I’m seriously questioning my life decisions. At least I know I picked the right college major. Early childhood education iswaytoo early for me.
But at least I’m prepared. I put the arts and crafts box in the downstairs closet when we unpacked—no problem. I take out the construction paper, childproof scissors, glitter, and nontoxic glue. I’ve read an article on this subject, and I know it’s not just play.
The free-form process of creating with their hands while simultaneously exploring color, form, texture, and composition enhances cognition and coordination and bolsters self-awareness. The nanny’s role is to encourage creative exploration without clouding the child’s experience with judgment or extensive instruction. Now, go make something that comes from the heart!
Or something that looks like a glittery mountain of glue.
I’m not exactly sure what Brody has made, but he’s damn proud of it. Or at least I thought he was—right up until he balled up his masterpiece and threw it on the floor in exasperation.
Great, he’s already a temperamental artist at five years old.
I try to think of something Brody can make that might lead to less frustration. I get out more construction paper, washable markers, and a pair of googly eyes. Brody watches intently. I draw a big head around the eyes and add two misshapen ears along with a goofy grin.
“I want to do that,” Brody declares.
“Me too,” Becca chimes in.
Before long, we’re all drawing funny faces with googly eyes. There is no fighting, no complaining. It’s the sweetest moment we’ve shared yet.
Becca is pressed up against me, warming herself like I’m a blanket. Brody’s face beams as he delights in showing off his creation—a caterpillar or a lion, it’s hard to say which.
“That’s really great!” Becca is so sincere it hurts.
“This is the most fun I’ve ever had—ever,” Brody says, beaming at me in a show of thanks. His earnest eyes flood me with emotion.
I clear my throat. “I’m glad everyone is having fun,” I say, realizing that I am, too.What’s up with that?
We create for a while until everyone gets hungry. I get up to fix the children’s breakfast, which basically amounts to chocolate milk and sugared cereal (I know how to keep my status as the best nanny in the world). I have my back to the little ones for no more than two minutes, but apparently, that’s all it takes.
I hear a mischievous laugh, a chair topples over, and then there’s a scream that could be playful or—
I spin around, chocolate milk sloshing out of the carton, to see Brody and Becca engaged in what can only be described as a preschool wrestling match involving glue and copious amounts of gold glitter.
What… the…
“Nooo!” I shout, not caring that I’ll wake the house. “Calm down, everyone! Brody, sit in your chair. You too, Becca. Now!”
Luckily they listen, but it’s too late. Becca’s dark brown locks are coated in glitter. Clumps of Brody’s hair are glued to the side of his head, scraps of construction paper affixed to the front of his light blue PJs.
