I am not a cute twenty-something.
“No more!” I say sternly to my dad, who is in the middle of tearing up another strawberry glazed donut. “If he has anymore, he’ll be pooping all day! And I can’t change him easily when I’m working.”
Dad pops the pieces of donut into his mouth, garnering a whiny cry from Jett, who had been watching intensely as my dad readied another sugary treat.
“Now look,” Dad says, bending at the waist to bring his face close to Jett’s. Forgetting–thankfully–about the donut, Jett reaches out and drags a sticky-fingered hand through my dad’s white beard. “We can have donuts another day. Mom says no more today,” he says to Jett, using his completely normal adult tone.
My dad is more obsessed with Jett than my mother, but the man refuses to use a baby voice or even alter his tone.
Dad swipes his fingers through Jett’s hair, getting him to release his beard by sliding him a sippy cup of water. He’s new to this cup–I got it for him when we moved in last week–so it’s still entertaining.
“You don’t have to take him, you know. That’s part of the perk of living near us, Beck,” my dad reasons for the millionth time. He and my mom want to watch Jett full-time. And there will probably be a day where I’ll grab that opportunity with both hands.
I’m just not there yet.
“I want to take him with me, Dad, okay?” I explain with fatigue because it’s not the first time I’ve had to tell him this. Mom, either.
“I want to go on record saying it’s not safe,” Dad adds, and I hate myself for doing it, but I snap at him. Because he’s there, I’m irritated, depressed, and tired. My boobs are sore, my pants fit weird today, my skin feels dry, and one piece of hair won’t sit straight, and my hormones are chaotic.
“I’m sick of everyone saying that! Do you think I would put my child at risk for anything in the world? Do you know the percentage of rideshare drivers that are assaulted or attacked? It’s .0002 percent.” Bracing my hands on my hips, my voice grows louder as the statistics I’d researched last month serve to boost my confidence. “Not two percent.Point zero, zero, zero two percent.” I shake my head, so tired of everyone telling me what’s best.
I did what everyone said was best my whole life and here I am, a thirty-seven-year-old single mom driving a glorified taxi living one street over from my parents.
I take a collective breath as my mom comes in from the backyard, her shirt full of pears as she holds the hem, creating a basket.
“Are we having theWheel Get Youtalk again?” she asks, carefully unpacking the pears onto the counter so as to not damage any. Despite the fact that Jett will drive his fist through most of them.
I nod. “Yes.” I brace my hands on my dad’s shoulders, losing the aggressive stance. He only means well, and it’s not his fault that things haven’t gone well for me. “Dad, I need Jett with me right now, okay? I am sad. And driving around strangers, making small talk, the open road with my son… it’s literally the only thing keeping me from going full padded walls, okay?”
Dad drapes his hands over the crooks of my elbows, dragging my arms down off of him. “Don’t say things like that in front of your mother,” he says quietly, irritation ruffling his bushy white eyebrows. “She worries.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. Turning back to the high chair, I pass Jett the remaining scrambled eggs from the pan. He tears into them like he didn’t just drain me dry, eat a piece of toast, a small donut, and a pear while he was waiting.
“I just want you guys to know it is safe. And, for that matter, I need it, okay?”
Mom begins washing my coffee mug out because she can’t sit still. “We’d love to see you open another studio. Don’t let Dustin ruin that for you.”
Dustin. My ex-husband, Jett’s father, andthe biggest miscalculation of my entire life.
I sigh and force myself to wait a moment for my frustration to pass. They mean well, they only want what’s best for me and Jett, I know this.
“I don’t know when I’m going to open another place, mom, but I promise, when I decide, you two will be the first to know.”
Dad stuffs the sippy cup into the diaper bag, along with a few extra diapers I’d laid out on the counter. “Your bag is ready. When do you need to pick up the rider?”
I glance at my watch. “In fifteen minutes.”
I didn’t look at the rider information as closely as I normally do because I had been focused on the pick-up location. The Wilting Daisy is a coffee house and bakery downtown, and it’s one of the places on my “want to visit” list. My parents are always raving about it. “Easter eggs at Christmas and bales of hay for Valentine’s Day. The place makes no sense, and the cookies are delicious! I love it!” had been my dad’s stark raving review.
“Going to head out now so I can top off before I head there,” I explain to my parents as I pluck crumbs off Jett's bib. Mom and Dad take turns kissing his cheeks, booping his nose, and doing elaborate goodbye hand gestures. They are exactly the grandparents I envisioned.
Jett is such a happy baby that even when he’s sad or upset, it’s usually short lived. His bottom lip quivers as I slide the bag on my shoulder and make my way to the front door–putting distance between us and them. He begins to cry but as soon as he’s in the moving car, he’s back to coos and giggles asOld Mac Donaldplays through the speakers.
When we near the coffeehouse and bakery, I take a deep breath, trying to shake away everything my parents had just said because while I really wouldn’t ever do anything to put Jett at risk and while I do believe this job is safe—I can’t help but be set on edge by arguing with them then going straight on a call.
“Right here,” I tell Jett as I peer over the steering wheel, sinking the car into a forward slanting parking space. I’m about to take the phone from the mounted cradle on my dashboard when movement catches my eye from the windshield.
“Holy shit,” I murmur to Jett, andBeau’slips twitch as he watches me from the sidewalk. He undoubtedly read my lips. But holy shit.