Mom Over Miami - By Annie Jones Page 0,4

on the other hand…

She’d never admit this to another soul, but seeing as it was a sober-faced child who’d already had a sense of pity for Hannah and her family instilled in him, she broke down and confessed, “Actually, Stilton, I do need help. In fact, some people might take one look at this situation and say I need divine intervention.”

What she got…was a phone call.

2

Subject: P.S.

To: ItsmeSadie, WeednReap

CC: SShelnutt, Phizziedigs

Hey, there—

P.S.—which in this case stands for “Pressed Send.” As in I pressed send on that last note too soon. Wanted to make sure I didn’t give the impression that I’ve bitten off more than I can chew with this Snack Mom business.

Pun intended, of course.

I’m a writer, even if all I manage to write is soccer team flyers, church nursery schedules and corny e-mails. At least I studied to be a writer and still hope to be one—someday.

Anyway, just wanted to emphasize that if I pepper my posts with bad puns, or flavor the simple stories about everyday life around here with both the sweet and the sour, those reflect my dream of being a writer more than my inadequacies at…pretty much everything else.

Love,

Hannah, girl writer

Subject: Addendum to P.S.

To: ItsmeSadie, WeednReap

Okay, sisters dear, I have issues. I know it. So I want the people I care about to think I’m at least competent enough to feed cheese and chips to the league’s losing-est ever soccer team. Don’t send me links to Web sites about improving self-esteem. Don’t offer me tips on how to be a better mom, cook or writer.

I love you both with all my heart.

Now leave me alone.

The ringing phone rattled her down to her very last nerve.

She clenched her jaw. She shut her eyes. She stuck her hand out to avoid mowing down in her rush the perfect—with the possible exception of a little lactose intolerance—child of Loveland’s most perfect mom. “Excuse me, Stilton, but…”

But the boy had fled. He now stood huddled in the corner of the living room with his hands over his ears.

For one fleeting moment, Hannah thought about joining him.

R-r-r-r-ring!

The sound jangled her back to her harried reality.

“Please be Payt saying he’s done at work and is so close by, he can get here in seconds to pitch in,” she whispered in prayer even as she lunged for the phone. “Hello?”

“Hannah-Banana! It’s your favorite aunt.”

Phyllis Amaryllis Shelnutt Shaffer Wentz, her father’s twice-widowed only sister. If Hannah had had a dozen aunts, the one they always called “Phiz” (though no one could ever remember why) would still have been her favorite.

That didn’t mean she was always a welcome interruption.

“Hi, Aunt Phiz. You sort of caught me in the middle of something.” Hannah elected not to share the details. Compared to her aunt’s amazing adventures, a little cheesy chaos hardly merited mention.

“Did I catch you at a bad time?” Phiz hollered back, clearly having not heard her niece say almost that very thing.

“Yes! It’s not the best time to take a call.”

Unless, of course, the now-retired college professor, part-time archaeologist and full-time family meddler had called to say she was in the neighborhood. And that she would be glad to drop in and save the day—or whisk Hannah away from it all.

“Can you hear me, dear? You have to excuse the poor connection, as I’m halfway around the world—in China!”

“‘Peace. Be strong,’” Hannah muttered the verse from Daniel that her father had chosen as her personal axiom in childhood.

“What, dear?”

“Nothing Aunt Phiz. You just caught me at a bad time.” She said the last part louder, hoping against hope it would sink in with her aunt at last.

But the boys’ voices rose in the background and drowned her out even in her own ears.

Tessa’s cry had turned into a soggy-sounding cough.

The dog pressed her entire lean muscled body against the sliding glass window. She gave out a mournful high-pitched whine begging to be let inside, and Stilton—who probably thought this qualified as helping—obliged.

Every other boy in the living room leapt up, bowls of food held above their heads.

Over the uproar, Aunt Phiz shouted, “What’s that, dear? I didn’t catch you at a bad time, did I?”

Hannah considered using the receiver like a hammer and pounding it against her forehead; instead, she trapped it between her head and shoulder and got to work. First, she kicked the fridge door open with the toe of her shoe, then kept it from closing again with a well-timed swing of her hip. “I have Sam’s soccer team here,