Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 36428 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 182(@200wpm)___ 146(@250wpm)___ 121(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 36428 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 182(@200wpm)___ 146(@250wpm)___ 121(@300wpm)
“Yes, Mama,” she exclaims as she scoots her plate away from her grabby handed baby brother.
“Know is French lesson, not war on France, da?” Yavok teases from the stove area behind me.
“Which is good considering some of my favorite mercenaries have a strong French allegiance.”
The faintest chuckles escape my husband, “Mozhem li my vozderzhat'sya ot obsuzhdeniya ubiystva za zavtrakom?”
I wanna argue that it’s always a good time to discuss murder; however, I see his point.
Kat may be a little too young for us to chat about it over sugary treats and applewood smoked bacon.
But not by much.
“Fine,” I concede seconds prior to him putting a plate of chopped up, lightly coated French toast and sliced bananas in front of Vlad.
“Mama…” our daughter slowly calls out to me, “will you take me to school and pick me up?”
My attention has barely relocated to her when her father asks, “You taking her?”
“Yeah.” I shift my gaze to where he’s standing beside me now that he’s given our son something to drink too. “I thought it would be nice to spend some extra one on one time together this morning. Maybe even prepare a little more for that French lesson during the drive or practice recalling our fencing terms or perhaps even brush up her familiarity with Tchaikovsky and Mozart.”
“Ili vy mogli by prosto poslushat' yeye.” His innocent reprimanding in Russian continues. “Pogovorite s ney o tom, chego ona khochet.”
Ugh.
This is what I’m talking about.
He just naturally knows the better decision would be to simply listen to Kat and let her choose the topic. To follow rather than lead her in moments like that. What comes easily to me in this parenting shit is the push to expose her to things I know will ultimately benefit her or not to coddle her when the lesson of inner strength is vital.
Everything else?
Well, it’s quite frankly a foreign language I’m not sure I’ll ever completely catch the grasp of.
In the warmest tone I can muster up, I mumble, “Noted.”
He offers me a loving grin and investigates the situation further. “You sure you have time to take Kat? Meeting not first thing?”
“No, I scheduled it for midmorning figuring our little ballerina might need some extra sleep after her performance yesterday and would want to go in a bit late rather than the right on time she evidently will.”
“She like Mama. Not big fan of late.” Yavok’s light laughs are attached to an innocent shrug. “Would rather just not go at all.”
“Oh,” my head rolls back her direction, “you’re so going to school today. Non-negotiable.”
“Okay.” A mischievous smile is flashed after sucking syrup off her thumb. “Will you pick me up today, too?”
I cautiously agree, “Sure. I can…rearrange my afternoon for that.”
“And then take me to my French lesson?”
“Yes…”
“And then take us to get lattes?”
There it is.
The real root of her impish smirk.
“Too young for lattes,” my husband huffs prompting me to roll my eyes.
“Do well at your first lesson, and we’ll grab cappuccinos afterwards.”
“Not better, Remy,” he scolds yet again.
“Relax, hers is always a child’s cappuccino. Made with chocolate milk instead of espresso.”
His shoulders unscrew from his ears split seconds before he leans over to stop our son from grabbing the strawberry that’s fallen off of Kat’s plate. “You pick up mean I can get shopping done with Vlad before playdate. He need new stroller – wheel broke at park Saturday. And I need new shoe. Someone turn lace into viperfish when I not notice.”
Kat less than innocently resumes consuming the last of her plate’s contents at the same time I ask, “Who’s the playdate with?”
“Michele.”
My eyebrows lift in a silent request for more details.
“Sandberg.”
Overdramatic gagging is immediate as is Vlad’s laughing and Kat’s mimicking to make him giggle more.
“Why hate?”
“Why like?” I counter with a vicious smirk.
His eyebrows knit tightly together. “Ne mogu ubit'.”
Oh, I most certainly can kill her.
I just shouldn’t.
At least not while her son and mine are toddler besties.
I swear, if they miss one playdate together a week, no one sleeps again until the issue is corrected.
On the occasion, I wonder if I ever had a friend that close, to which Wendell reassures me I didn’t. Being social – even as a small child – was always more of a job than something I enjoyed. Perhaps that’s why I’m so insistent my own children have those connections, those experiences, even if they can’t last forever.
Another teasing expression weasels its way onto Yavok’s face as his arm winds itself around my waist, “Worried?”
The arrogance in his gaze receives a harsh glare.
“Not like way she always offer to bake something sweet for Pet?”
No.
I don’t.
And not just because that Cunty Crocker knows it’s one of my weaker skills.
Rather than feed his cockiness, I simply lift my index finger. Steal a small graze of the skin right above his collar and smirk. “Pet knows exactly where home is, so why would I ever worry?”