Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 115683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
I let out a bark of laughter, even as my middle tightens with a familiar anxiety. Dean has been a bear to potty train. He still gets constipated, and sometimes he gets so stopped up that he can’t hold it anymore. He has accidents often enough to have me picking up new underwear for him anytime I go into town.
I’m ashamed to admit I’ve resorted to bribery. Not sure what else to do at this point. Everyone tells me he’ll go off to college knowing how to poop in the potty. But in the meantime, we’re struggling. Hard.
Setting him in the chair beside mine, I get up. “If you keep your underwear clean for a week, we’ll talk.”
I turn on our current favorite band, the Lumineers, while I make breakfast and pack Dean’s lunch. Ryder, who’s always been big into music, turned me on to the band recently.
Dean picks at his waffles for a bit, then meanders over to the counter.
“Peanut butter and jelly again?” He sighs when he sees the sandwich I’m making.
I glance at the clock. “What’s wrong with peanut butter and jelly? You ate it every day this week. And last week. And the week before that, come to think of it.”
“I don’t think I like it anymore.”
Inhale. Exhale.
“What would you like, then?” I ask.
“Betty always has chicken nuggets in her lunch.”
I chuckle. “Didn’t know people were naming their kids Betty again.”
“What’s wrong with Betty?”
“Nothing. So you’re telling me you want chicken nuggets?”
“Yes.”
My left eye literally twitches from the effort of not rolling it. I turn on the oven. “Hey, buddy, it’s time to get dressed. Please bring your plate up to the sink.”
“I don’t want to bring my plate up,” he whines, reaching for the oven.
I pull his hand away. “We’ve talked about this. We clean up after ourselves, right? I know that’s what Ms. Loo and Ms. Lawrence have you do in school.”
“Can’t you clean up after me? My legs are tired.”
Now he’s opening the junk drawer and rooting around inside. He’s probably looking for the packing tape I hid yesterday after he taped the dog’s ears to his head.
Speaking of the dog. “Elvis! Time to go out!” I pull Dean’s hand away from the drawer and close it. “We don’t have time for tape. Please go get dressed. This is the second time I’ve asked you.”
“I will! I just want to draw for five minutes.”
I open the freezer and pull out a package of chicken nuggets. “Fine. But only for five minutes. Then you really do need to get dressed, okay?”
He makes a face when he sees the nuggets. “I don’t want the dino ones. I want the chicken sticks.”
“We ran out of the sticks.”
“What? Why didn’t you get them at the grocery store?”
It’s the whining that really gets me. Tugging a hand through my hair, I shake my head. “I forgot. But I’ll try to swing by the store on my way home from taking you to school. Dino nuggets are all that we have, buddy.”
“Well, I don’t want them.”
“But you love them!” The kid literally ate ten the last time I made these damn things.
“No, I don’t.”
Inhale. Exhale. Try not to lose your mind, even though this is some real bullshit right here.
I’m not angry with Dean. I’m annoyed with him.
I’m angry because…well, life ain’t fair, and doing this whole morning rigamarole alone every damn day is a lot.
“Then it’s PB and J.”
Dean’s little face crumples. “But I don’t want that either!”
Elvis appears in the kitchen and ambles to the back door. He’s an eighty-pound mutt of indeterminate origin with a chocolate coat and this big, droopy face that makes him look like a jowly old man.
I love him dearly. I’d also love to not deal with him too this morning.
I have no idea what I was thinking when we adopted him nearly two years ago.
Lies. Dean was sad, you’d been drowning in grief for a year and…other shit, and you both needed some Christmas fucking cheer.
I stuff the nuggets back inside the freezer, turn off the oven, and open the back door. We’re well into October, but it’s still hot and humid enough in our corner of Texas to make you sweat even before the sun is fully risen.
Elvis, being Elvis, takes his sweet time heading outside. We rescued him from an animal shelter, so there’s no telling exactly how old he is. The vet guessed two or three back then, which makes him around five now. But you’d think he’s ninety for how slowly he moves.
Eeyore in dog form, basically.
My gaze catches on Dean’s Spider-Man backpack beside the door. My stomach drops when I remember he took out his work folder yesterday for God knows what reason.
Please, God, let him have put it back in the bag.
Unzipping the backpack, I see that the folder is missing. Which is just great, considering I put a check in it last night for an upcoming field trip.