I take a knee and buckling each in turn. Over my shoulder I yell in the direction of the stairs. “And none of that lip gloss stuff, Gilly. I mean it! You’re too young for—”
“Oh, daddy,” she says, entering the kitchen with a pink Pusheen pack on her back, “that was a one-time thing.”
“Let’s make a no-time thing, huh? No make-up, miss. None. Not until you’re eighteen.”
“Eighteen? You’re a trip.” She rolls her eyes at me, leaning down to kiss my cheek as I finish Meghan’s second boot. “Stubbly.”
I reach up, rubbing my new beard with my thumb and forefinger. “Don’t like it?”
Meghan sighs dramatically. “So handsome and yet, he chooses to hide it.”
I hear Chad’s sneakers hit the landing and he enters the kitchen as I’m standing up. “Dad, I need to stay after today. Until five.”
“Detention?” I joke.
“No, sir. Debate team.”
“What about your sisters?”
“Can Gilly and Meghan go to after-care today?”
Gillian groans. The girls don’t love spending two hours in the elementary school cafeteria after school, but it’s a helpful, low-cost childcare option when I’m working, and Chad has an after-school activity. Luckily the elementary school is halfway between the middle school and our house, so their brother can pick them up when debate team is finished practicing.
“You’ll grab them up at five and walk them home?”
“Yes, sir, I will,” he says, nodding at me.
“All right, then. Debate away.”
“Thanks, Dad,” he says. “I saw the chicken legs in the fridge. I can start dinner too.”
“I appreciate that, son.”
“I hate after-care,” whines Gillian. “We didn’t used to have to go there, before...”
“Shhh!” hisses Chad. He turns to Meghan, pulling out her chair. “Put your bowl in the sink and get your backpack.”
Used to.
Before.
My wife of fourteen years died two years ago when her car hit a slick of ice and skated into a fuel truck. The collision resulted in a massive explosion which killed Wendy and the truck driver almost immediately and left me a widower with three young kids. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think of her. Not one. And I miss her so much sometimes, it takes my breath away.
“Daddy, why can’t Aunt Bonnie pick us up?” Gillian demands as I grab my jacket and hat off the rack by the front door.
“’Cause she works,” answers Chad, shrugging into his raincoat before helping Meghan zip hers. “She’s not your personal taxi service, Gilly.”
“Are you my daddy?” she asks her brother, giving him a sour look before turning to me. “We hate after-care. Why can’t she come get us?”
“Yeah. We love Aunt Bonnie better’n after-care,” adds Meghan.
“I can’t ask Bonnie to drop everything and pick you up. Not when you’ll be safe and sound and looked-after until Chad can fetch you and bring you home,” I say firmly.
I’ve made a concerted effort not to ask my sister to play the role of mama for my kids. She has a husband, home, part-time job and twin babies to look after. She never says no when I ask for help, but there are inevitable times that I do and will need her. I can’t wear out my welcome by pestering her for the little things.
“She doesn’t miiiiind,” whines Gilly. “I can even help her with the twins. I’m finishing fifth grade! I’m old enough to babysit!”
“Quit moaning,” advises Chad, grabbing Meghan’s hand and leading her through the door to my SUV. “I’ll get Meg buckled in.”