Page 9 of The Baby-whisperer and the Brute
As a professional athlete, I had to admire their quickness and lightness on their feet. As a father whose disciplinary skills were on theunderdevelopedside… I was dismayed by it.
I didn’t want to threaten them into obedience. That was Anouk’s sole parenting strategy, and I’d never seen it be all that effective. I wanted theirwillingcooperation.
Dropping my face into my hands, I faked loud, cartoony sobs. “I’ve lost my little girls. What am I going to do now? Who am I going to give piggyback rides to? Or throw into the swimming pool? Who’s going to eat all that ice cream in the freezer?”
Through the cracks between my fingers, I saw two tiny pairs of bare feet—one with purple painted toenails, the other with pink ones—creeping toward me.
And then they were all over me, one climbing onto my back while the other jumped at me and hugged me from the front.
“Here we are Daddy,” Claire, the four-year-old squealed in my face, clearly thrilled to have “fooled” me.
“You didn’t know where we were,” my older daughter, Skyla, announced. “But we were right here.”
I looked up and around, making a comical dumb-guy face. “What? Where? I lookedeverywhere.”
The girls giggled again, and I pulled them both onto the couch where I tickled them just to hear more of the addictive sound.
They shrieked with delight, and when I paused for a moment, Claire shouted, “More Daddy, more.” I obliged with another round of tickles.
It had been obvious in my call with Anouk she thoughtshe’dgotten the better end of this deal, but I was thrilled with the development.
I wanted my daughters with me every day—not just this summer but year-round.
Thankfully I wasn’t training for a fight at the moment. If I had been, the unexpected change in our custody arrangement would have meant finding some daytime babysitting pronto. For now though it was just the three of us, and I loved it.
After a minute I stopped tickling and pulled Claire onto my lap.
“Okay now, let’s settle down. The party is about to start, and we don’t want to be late, so I’m going to need you to let me fix your hair with these thingamabobs and then you two need to get dressed in something nice.”
Spotting the brush I’d picked up from the sofa cushion, Skyla skittered away from me. “You can’t catch us,” she taunted. “Come on Claire, let’s hide.”
Claire contorted her spine and slipped from my lap like she was an eel coated in cooking oil. And then they were off, flying out of the playroom with their matching pink cartoon-character-covered nightgowns flapping around their skinny legs.
I stood and followed them, throwing my hands up in frustration. “Girls… no. Come on now. We have to get ready.”
All I heard in response was the slap of their little feet on the marble floors, the sound growing fainter and fainter as they sought out one of the mansion’s limitless hiding spots.
Chapter Three
Thing One and Thing Two
Angelina
I couldn’t have been any happier.
The party was a smashing success by anyone’s estimation. No fewer than fifty children, all dressed in miniature versions of “Eastport Bay casual,” cavorted on the grounds of the Wessex estate.
The weather had cooperated fully, offering clear blue afternoon skies and a light, crisp sea breeze. Beyond the expanse of manicured green lawn and the Bluff Walk that bordered it, the Atlantic sparkled and provided that ever-present “ocean smell” that made you feel like you were on vacation, even when you were in your own back yard.
All of the preschool’s graduating class along with many of my former students were there.
I’d received more friendly gap-toothed smiles and sticky-fingered hugs than I could ever remember having in one day, and Cinda was thrilled with the response to the food, decorations, and especially the games and entertainment.
“I have to say it again—no one understands little kids like you do,” she said as we stood together on the patio, surveying the nearby pony ride attraction. “I still can’t believe you’re leaving the school. You’re such a natural teacher, and you have such a strong mothering instinct.”
The remark stung. Not because it was delivered cruelly or because Cinda was seeking to make me regret my decision to go into religious service—it wasn’t, and she wasn’t.
It was just that hearing the word “mother” associated with myself pinged one of the deepest-seated most secret desires of my heart.
