Page 12 of The Christmas Mittens
Dinner started out tense.
The snow outside was still falling, covering the ground with a few inches of white fluff that would taper off after midnight, according to my weather app. Gilda remained sequestered in her room until I had summoned her to come eat. Usually we chatted over the meal, relaying to each other how our day was or what was new in school, etc., but tonight it was strained.
Even with the nuggets and homemade macaroni and cheese, she didn’t seem willing to let go of her upset. Finally, after ten minutes of stilted silence with only the sound of the fridge coming on and the clink of silverware to plates, I spoke up.
“I know that you’re upset…” She dunked a nugget into some honey with real ire. “And I know I stepped out of bounds speaking about your personal information without your consent. I am sorry, truly.” She chewed as she stared at the gooey mac and cheese on her plate. “I didn’t think of how you might feel.” Her sight flickered from her plate to me and to her glass of milk. “I was trying to find out how I could do better as a parent to a young lady—”
“I hate that term.” She shoved another nugget into the monkey dish of honey.
“Young lady?” I asked and got a violent nod. Sandy hair falling into her eyes that she pushed back with a sticky thumb. “What do you not like about the term young lady?”
“It’s just so patronizing and old-fashioned. It’s super condescending. Like, it reeks of a power dynamic that minimizes a woman’s accomplishments.”
I stared blankly. My fork was loaded with cheesy goodness. “Oh. Okay, well, I didn’t realize it was so offensive. I thought it was respectful or even endearing. My mother used to use it all the time when talking about girls under eighteen or so.”
She dunked another nug. “My generation doesn’t like being made to feel less than because we don’t fit some patriarchal notion of what aladyis. I’d much rather hear someone use a more feminist term like young woman or young people.”
“Noted.” I regrouped. “I was trying to find out how I could do better as a parent to a young woman and was fixated on my side of things. Gilda, you know I would never embarrass you on purpose.”
She blew out a breath that rolled over the table to cool my nuggets. “Yeah, I know. It’s just too stupid of people to come up and talk to you about your period. Like, I love Franny, I do, but why does she think I need advice on how to menstruate? Also, her tips were like from the 1700s or something. Drinklemonade? What the heck is that about? What is that supposed to even do for you?”
I shrugged, glad to hear that some of the rancor had left her voice. “I have no clue. Old folks have old ways, not always the best ways, but that was how they were raised. Maybe it helps keep a body hydrated. There are notes about keeping hydrated and how it can alleviate some of the discomfort and bloating. What?”
“Can we not talk about my bloating?”
“Sorry. I’m not wholly sure what we can talk about when it comes to this subject, honey. I’m doing my best to tread carefully yet stay informed. Being a man, I don’t have firsthand knowledge, so I have to glean what I can from the internet and other women. That was what I was doing when I went to the Woolverines for advice.”
She chewed and nodded. “Yeah, I know. It was just so embarrassing. And she said it right in the store with like two other people there shopping for embroidery floss. I mean, yeah, they were women and all, but it was still super cringe.”
“She meant well.” It was all I could say at the moment. “I can talk with her about it if you want?”
“Yeah, okay, that would be cool. I love Franny, but I just don’t want to talk about my period. And I get that you didn’t do it to be a jerk.” The tight lines around her eyes smoothed.
“I didn’t, and I never would. I see that I kind of messed up big time with how I handled it. And I promise I will never discuss anything that personal with anyone other than you.”
She gave me a weak smile. “I would like to bring up a point I have, and I think we need to clarify. I know you were mad and people say things in anger that they regret later, but I will not allow you to call me dumb. I’m not a fancy college graduate, but I’m not stupid either. That’s disrespectful and hurtful.”
Her sight fell to her plate. “Okay, sorry, I didn’t really mean it. I know you’re smart. I won’t say that again.”
“Cool.” She rolled her eyes, which signaled that we were past the worst of the storm. “Groovy? Keen? Far out? What is the term young adults are using now?”
“Cool is okay. Lit or fire. Just not groovy. That’ssoScooby-Doo.”
That made me chuckle. “We should watch one of thoseScooby-Doomovies tonight.”
“Yeah, sure, we can do that. I need some help with making a sweater for Della. I’m not sure how to work sleeves in for her front legs.”
“I can help.” She smiled, a real smile, and we spent the rest of that night curled on the sofa, knitting dog sweaters and tiny mittens, while watching Scooby and the gang deal with an island filled with zombie pirates. I even got a peck on the cheek before she went to bed. The wild storms of teendom do blow up and die off quickly, it seemed. Better make sure I invest in some floaties for the next typhoon.
Chapter Seven
Sunday, December 13
Sunday morning dawned cold and clear, the snowstorm having passed overnight, leaving the world coated with white. The sun woke as slowly as I did, peeking over the snow-laden boughs of pine to shine through frosty windowpanes. I rolled away from the light to try to go back to sleep but rest was elusive. Gilda and I had knitted all night. Her sweater for Della was nearly completed. I’d helped with the tiny sleeves, but otherwise she had done the rest all by herself. I was tempted to finish it for her but knew that would upset her. Since we’d just smoothed things out from the blowup yesterday, I was not going to stir the pot. She’d been up until eleven, me much later. When she had turned in, I stopped cranking out baby mittens to work on her sweater. I now had about five sets of mittens for Della and the clothesline.
As I lay in bed thinking about Anders and his dog, I felt stirrings under the covers. Unsure of exactly what to do about the morning wood that felt heavier than a regular wake-up woodie, I let my hand slip down under the elastic of my joggers.The sun felt much brighter now that I had my dick in my hand, like God was looking down from above to judge me playing with myself. So, I closed my eyes. Yes, it was juvenile, but if I couldn’t see his sunbeam, maybe God couldn’t see me. With that taken care of, I gave my cock a tug. It felt good. Really good. I cupped my balls. I squeezed. A soft moan escaped me. Damn it, this would be so much better with someone else’s hand on my prick. A flicker of something much like an old movie reel began behind my eyelids. For years, when I’d jerked off—and that didn’t happen often—I always envisioned Katie. The jolt of surprise when Anders’ handsome face swam before me made me lose my rhythm. But only for a moment. Once I let him into my fantasy, my stroking gained momentum like a rock rolling downhill.
I saw Anders taking my cock into his mouth in my mind, his lust-filled lips spread around my dick as he hummed around my prick. That little snippet lasted about thirty seconds before my balls tightened and I shot all over my hand and my fleece pants. Breath ragged, balls contracting, I let the erotic imagery fizzle out while I fought for breath.
