Mom Over Miami - By Annie Jones Page 0,29
you thought what?”
“It doesn’t matter what I thought, Sam. The end result is that I tried to think of how to please someone else by telling them what I thought would make them happy so they would think better of me, and now I’m sunk.”
She sighed, her shoulders slumping.
“Awww.” Sam wiggle-walked on his knees over to put his arms around her legs. “Don’t be sad.”
“I’m sorry, Sam. I should never have dragged you and Tessa in here today to quibble over Kumquat, Canary or Lemongrass.”
“Huh?”
“Paint colors,” she explained, pointing to the squares lying on the floor.
“They all look yellow to me.”
You want to see yellow? You should look at the streak down my back. Hannah withheld the comment. Sam didn’t need to hear her insecurities spilled out for a laugh.
Listen to yourself. Payt and Aunt Phiz’s words echoed in her mind.
And she had heeded them. She had listened, really listened.
She had spoken to herself and in the same instant caught it and paused. If it wasn’t the kind of thing fit to say to Sam, why would she consider it suitable to say to herself, about herself?
Somewhere in that convoluted reasoning, the seed of change had just been planted.
She knew it even as she knew she had no idea how to nurture it. Only that she must nurture it. For her children’s sake. For her own.
She would start doing that by stopping this nonsense with Jacqui. Now.
“What do you think, kids? Do you have an opinion about what color we should paint the toddler room?”
“You know they all look the same to me.” He got to his feet, plucked up the pieces of paper and offered them to the baby. “But why are you asking Tessa?”
“Well, of the three of us, she’ll spend the most time in here.” Hannah swiped her thumb over her daughter’s damp chin. “What do you say, sweetie? Shall we see which one you drool on the most and go with it?”
That process would make about as much sense to Hannah as Jacqui’s did. Who cared if the room ended up with a greenish tint or a golden one?
The baby fisted her hands around two of the cards and let the third fall away.
It tumbled down and down and landed color side up.
“Bye bye, Lemongrass,” Hannah muttered.
“She’s picking!” Sam hopped from one foot to the next.
“Okay, this is it, Tessa. Kumquat or Canary?”
The child squealed.
“Kumquat? Or Canary?” Hannah leaned closer.
Tessa stuck both arms out straight, waved them about for a moment, then poked one balled-up card into her mouth.
“We have a winner!” Hannah pulled the card away from Tessa.
The baby protested with a kick and a screech.
“Now she’s mad, too.”
“She’ll get over it.”
Hannah kissed the baby’s head, inhaling the sweet scent of her fine curls.
Tessa quieted—a little.
“She’ll get over it, and so will Jacqui. Tessa didn’t have any business hanging on to that paint card. Just like Jacqui doesn’t have any business hanging a paint color over my head.”
“Was Mrs. Lafferty mad enough to pour paint on your head?
“Maybe, but you know what?”
He shook his head.
“I am not going to let her do it. I wouldn’t let her actually do it and I refuse to let her do it metaphorically.”
“Metawhatically?”
“Vocabulary lessons later, son. Right now I have a job to do.” Hannah tweaked Sam’s nose. “Your mommy is not a wimp. She’s an intelligent, capable person who can speak her own mind.”
“What does that mean?” Sam blinked up at her.
“It means we’re done here today. Let’s go enjoy the last days of summer.” She nudged her son to get him going.
He hurried on ahead.
Hannah took one last look at the slobbery sample she’d slipped from Tessa’s grasp, then wedged the corner of the card under the plastic light switch cover.
She flipped off the light in the toddler room, calling over her shoulder as she ushered her family out the door, “Canary!”
9
Subject: Nacho Mama’s House column
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat. Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat. Rat-tat-tat-ta-ta-ta-ta-tat ta-dum. Ta-dum.
That’s right. If my life were to have a theme song right now it would have to be the one they play to accompany plate spinners, jugglers and acrobats.
Plates-a-spinning big-time around here—figuratively and literally. But I am getting better at juggling Payt’s, Sam’s, Tessa’s and my own schedules. And like some out-of-control acrobat, I have my share of tumbles. Of course, I still think I’d look ghastly in tights!
The cooking lessons forge on. And by that I mean the results look like I produced them in a forge not a kitchen. Pork roast isn’t supposed to have