Page 3 of The Devil You Know
“Never mind,” I say before an argument can break out. “I’m getting up. I’ll do it.”
I look down at Leah, whose mouth is hanging open with a bit of baby drool dripping out the side. Her red curls are shooting out in every direction like a three-year-old mad scientist. I never love my daughter more than when she’s completely passed out. I hate to wake her.
“Any chance you could help her get ready for school?” I ask Ben, before he can hustle back to our warm bed.
He sighs. “Like what do you need me to do?”
I don’t get it. Ben has gotten Leah ready for school before on multiple occasions, yet whenever I ask for his help, he seems completely baffled. It’s not that complicated, really. She’s going to preschool, not preparing for a business meeting.
“Just get her dressed,” I tell him. “And change her diaper.”
Ben shakes his head dolefully at the package of pull-ups in the corner of the room. “When is she going to get toilet trained anyway?”
“Soon.”
“You know I think we should just put her in underwear for a whole weekend.”
“Wouldyouclean up the pee on our carpet?”
“I’dhelpclean up the pee. I’d clean up at least fifty percent of the pee.”
I highly doubt he would clean up fifty percent of the pee. I’d be lucky if he’d clean up five percent of the pee. And after working all week, the last thing I want to do is be scrubbing ninety-five percent of the pee out of the carpet all weekend.
“Do we have to discuss this now?” I say.
He sighs again. “Fine. Go take your shower. I’ll take care of Leah.”
I climb over my sleeping daughter so that I can escape her room. This is no easy task, because Leah’s room is not exactly tidy. Her room looks like aFrozentornado hit. In case you live in a soundproof booth and have never heard ofFrozen, it’s this popular musical for kids about a girl named Elsa who has ice powers. Leah is obsessed with everythingFrozen. She has aFrozenbedspread,Frozendolls (Anna, Elsa, Olaf, and Kristoff), aFrozenlunchbox for school, andFrozenposters all over her wall. Right now, the floor is littered withFrozenfigurines, playing cards, and other paraphernalia. This room looks like it’s oneFrozenplay-doh set away from being condemned by the Board of Health.
The second I get out of Leah’s bed, I step on a Lego from herFrozenLego set. I scream in pain and grab my foot. There isnothingmore painful than stepping on a Lego with your bare foot. I’d rather be giving birth—at least then I had an epidural.
Ben crinkles his brow. “Are you okay?”
“I stepped on a Lego,” I explain, still gripping my throbbing foot.
“Oh, that’s the worst,” Ben agrees. If there’s one thing you can share with your spouse, it’s the pain of accidentally stepping on your child’s various toys. Last week, Ben’s foot was impaled by a Barbie doll’s plastic arm.
When I get back downstairs after I dress and shower, I’m pleased to find that my daughter is shod and clothed, although Ben is still wrestling Leah into her hated winter coat. I don’t know what she hates about it—it’s neon pinkwith light pink fur on the hood. It has the maximum and requisite amount of pink. This coat should be a hit.
“Ben!” I say as walk closer and my daughter comes into focus. “Is Leah still wearing hernightgown?”
Ben struggles to his feet like he’s an eighty-year-old man. It always hits me with a jolt of surprise to remember that my husband is now thirty-nine years old—less than one year away from the big four-oh. When we met, he was barely thirty. But in many ways, he doesn’t look all that different. He’s got a little gray threaded into the temples of his short brown hair and some new lines around his eyes that have actually made him several degrees sexier. But he still mostly looks the same to me. I wonder if when we actually are eighty years old, he’ll still seem like he’s not yet thirty. Or will I look at my husband and think to myself,Oh my God, how did I end up married to this old man?
Ben glances at Leah’sFrozennightgown and gives me a pained look. “She wanted to wear it to school.”
“She can’t wear her nightgown to school!”
“For Christ’s sake, what’s the difference, Jane?” He shakes his head. “She’sthree. Does she really have to live up to some sort of fashion code atpreschool?”
The truth is, I could care less if Leah wears her nightgown to school. For all I care, she could wear that same exact nightgown every single day for the rest of her life. But I know Leah’s teacher Mila is going to yell at me ifshe shows up like this. So I’ve got to choose: do I fight with Ben and Leah now or get yelled at by Mila the Preschool Nazi later?
“Fine,” I say wearily. “Just get her coat on.”
Ben kneels down to resume his struggle. Every time he gets the second of Leah’s arms into the sleeve, she pulls the other one out. It would be funny if I weren’t running late.
“By the way,” I say to Ben, “don’t forget that tomorrow is Leah’s winter concert.”
He looks at me blankly. Ben has always had a horrible memory. I have reminded him about this winter concert at least a dozen times, but he looks at me like this is the first he’s hearing about it.
