selfish bitch. A horrible, horrible person. The kind of mother whose kids should be taken away because proper mothers would never consider what I’d been plotting out in my head.
“No thanks, Honey,” I manage to say.
“Come on! It’s really fun. I can steer it through that hoop. See it there, Mom!”
“Which one is yours again?”
“Number fifteen.”
I see the boat. It looks like responsibility. Like me going to work on time, at 5, and only dropping Mackenzie off just before I go.
“Show me,” I say.
On the cordoned-off section of the pond, I watch Mackenzie’s boat steer toward the upright hoop in a tight circle, fire toward it, and miss.
“Dang. Hang on, Mom. I can do it. Mom, are you watching?”
“Yes. You have my undivided attention.”
I watch her focus on the boat. I watch her thumbs operate the controls. I watch her tongue sneak out of the corner of her mouth as she concentrates. Then she turns toward me, all wide blue eyes — a kid rather than the serious little woman she is too often.
“Did you see that, Mommy?”
She means the boat. I didn’t see what the boat did, but I saw the operator just fine.
“I saw it,” I say with a bittersweet smile.
She shoves the remote into my hands.
“You try it. And after this, can we play on the playground? And do we have time, after we get home, to frost the cupcakes from this morning?”
I look at my phone. There are no new messages, but I see that it’s now 2:15.
Of course we can do those things. We have until 5. SuperMom is on the case, and happy enough with what she has.
CHAPTER 7
Grady
There are only two seats in my truck. Usually, I’d have shoved the crap I care to hang onto (including a cot from Walmart, thanks to my last bedding situation) into the passenger seat, just in case it rains. But for now, because the skies are clear, I’ve relegated my scant life’s belongings to the truck bed so the other living being can ride beside me.
I’ve tried conversing with him, but he’s an awful conversationalist. No matter what I say, he complains. No matter what I try, he answers with “Meow.” Or, sometimes, “Rowr.”
I’ve named my new cat Carl. The cute vet receptionist, who kept smiling at me, told me it was a terrible name for a cat, but I haven’t had a pet since I was a kid. I’m not used to hanging out with animals as I roam the country, so I figure if I’m going to have one now, he’ll need to be at least somewhat relatable. I’ll need to talk to this guy, and I can’t do that if his name is Fuzzball.
I glance over at Carl. I bought him a traveling crate at PetSmart to replace the box, which the cute receptionist also said wasn’t a suitable cat home. The thing’s sides are thin bars, sufficient to let me and my passenger look at each other, or possibly to glance out the windows at any particularly attractive girl kitties we pass and might want to holler at. He’s calmed a lot in the past half day of driving and had already cooled visibly by the time I got him to the vet. We seem to be getting along, though I haven’t figured out is how he’s going to do his business. At first, I had the bottom part of a cut-off milk jug filled with kitty litter in the traveler with him, but the thing was too small for both cat and litter, and he kept having to sit in it. Plus, he kept looking at me with irritation, as if questioning my decision to trust him with such excellent aim.
We’ve been compromising. Every time I make a pit stop for me, Carl gets one, too. I know it’s not the most elegant solution to leave a cat loose in a truck with a kitty litter box on the floor while the owner runs into a rest stop, but so far it’s mostly working. I toss the clumps into the weeds and re-box him before driving, and he hasn’t made any attempts to sneak past me and flee. He seems to understand that I saved his ass and is content to see where this partnership might go.
“No thanks, Honey,” I manage to say.
“Come on! It’s really fun. I can steer it through that hoop. See it there, Mom!”
“Which one is yours again?”
“Number fifteen.”
I see the boat. It looks like responsibility. Like me going to work on time, at 5, and only dropping Mackenzie off just before I go.
“Show me,” I say.
On the cordoned-off section of the pond, I watch Mackenzie’s boat steer toward the upright hoop in a tight circle, fire toward it, and miss.
“Dang. Hang on, Mom. I can do it. Mom, are you watching?”
“Yes. You have my undivided attention.”
I watch her focus on the boat. I watch her thumbs operate the controls. I watch her tongue sneak out of the corner of her mouth as she concentrates. Then she turns toward me, all wide blue eyes — a kid rather than the serious little woman she is too often.
“Did you see that, Mommy?”
She means the boat. I didn’t see what the boat did, but I saw the operator just fine.
“I saw it,” I say with a bittersweet smile.
She shoves the remote into my hands.
“You try it. And after this, can we play on the playground? And do we have time, after we get home, to frost the cupcakes from this morning?”
I look at my phone. There are no new messages, but I see that it’s now 2:15.
Of course we can do those things. We have until 5. SuperMom is on the case, and happy enough with what she has.
CHAPTER 7
Grady
There are only two seats in my truck. Usually, I’d have shoved the crap I care to hang onto (including a cot from Walmart, thanks to my last bedding situation) into the passenger seat, just in case it rains. But for now, because the skies are clear, I’ve relegated my scant life’s belongings to the truck bed so the other living being can ride beside me.
I’ve tried conversing with him, but he’s an awful conversationalist. No matter what I say, he complains. No matter what I try, he answers with “Meow.” Or, sometimes, “Rowr.”
I’ve named my new cat Carl. The cute vet receptionist, who kept smiling at me, told me it was a terrible name for a cat, but I haven’t had a pet since I was a kid. I’m not used to hanging out with animals as I roam the country, so I figure if I’m going to have one now, he’ll need to be at least somewhat relatable. I’ll need to talk to this guy, and I can’t do that if his name is Fuzzball.
I glance over at Carl. I bought him a traveling crate at PetSmart to replace the box, which the cute receptionist also said wasn’t a suitable cat home. The thing’s sides are thin bars, sufficient to let me and my passenger look at each other, or possibly to glance out the windows at any particularly attractive girl kitties we pass and might want to holler at. He’s calmed a lot in the past half day of driving and had already cooled visibly by the time I got him to the vet. We seem to be getting along, though I haven’t figured out is how he’s going to do his business. At first, I had the bottom part of a cut-off milk jug filled with kitty litter in the traveler with him, but the thing was too small for both cat and litter, and he kept having to sit in it. Plus, he kept looking at me with irritation, as if questioning my decision to trust him with such excellent aim.
We’ve been compromising. Every time I make a pit stop for me, Carl gets one, too. I know it’s not the most elegant solution to leave a cat loose in a truck with a kitty litter box on the floor while the owner runs into a rest stop, but so far it’s mostly working. I toss the clumps into the weeds and re-box him before driving, and he hasn’t made any attempts to sneak past me and flee. He seems to understand that I saved his ass and is content to see where this partnership might go.
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