I messed up. Big
time.
These are my
thoughts as I rush into the bathroom for the world’s fastest shower. The hot
spray of water judges me as I hastily wash Liam off my thighs.
A better mother
wouldn’t let this happen. I shouldn’t have a younger lover. If I didn’t, he
wouldn’t be so deliciously appealing. I couldn’t lose my mind, wake him up out
of a sound sleep to ride him like a pony. And then collapse beside him in
peaceful, sated slumber.
Seriously, how
did I let that happen?
You know how, my hormones scold me. Because he’s the hottest thing you’ve ever
tasted.
Oh yeah. That.
After showering
I get dressed at top speed. Poor Liam is currently shouldering all my parental
responsibilities. Throwing on yesterday’s sundress, I pause for a moment to pop
a birth control pill, because that’s one thing I won’t goof up.
Then I hurry
downstairs.
The sight in the
kitchen gives me heart palpitations. But not because there’s flour dusting much
of the countertop. Rather, it’s the hot, shirtless guy holding my toddler and
making a dump truck sound as Amy tips the measuring spoon over a bowl.
“Yes! Well done,
little miss,” he says, relieving her of the spoon. “Batter up!” he says, easing
her to the floor and catching Kate, who’s trying to climb him like a tree.
Aren’t we all.
Liam easily
rests Kate on one of his perfect arms, measures a half teaspoon of baking
powder one-handed and then hands the spoon to Kate. “Beep beep beep,” he says,
making the sound of a truck backing up. “Look out below!”
Kate dumps the
spoonful into the bowl and giggles.
“Awesome. Who
wants to add the milk?”
“My do it!” Amy
yells.
Boy, I need
another minute of alone time to compose myself. Because I love this picture a
little too much. I love Liam’s ease with my girls. I love how calm he is at the
center of toddler-induced mayhem.
It causes a
little pain in my heart as I allow myself one more comparison to my former life.
The truth is I never once saw Decker elbows-deep in kitchen chaos with a kid on
one arm. Starting breakfast with twins in tow? He was more likely to captain a
NASA expedition to Mars than he was to do this simple Saturday morning thing.
I feel like
crying for no reason at all. Clearly I’m on some kind of emotional overload.
Maybe coffee will help.
Sliding into the
kitchen, I go right for the coffee grounds.
“Mama!” Amy
says. “Wiam making pancakes.”
“That is
amazing,” I say in a wobbly voice. “What a lucky girl you are.”
“Sorry about the
mess,” he says, casting a glance in
my direction. And I know he doesn’t just mean the flour on the counter, but the
bigger mess of waking up naked in my bed.
“You know,” I
say with a small sigh. “Messes shouldn’t scare me so much. It’s going to be
fine.”
Liam’s smile is
so filled with relief, that I now feel like an ogre. This man wants to make
pancakes with us on Saturday morning, and I said no to that before? I’m clearly
insane.
“Which frying
pan should I use?” he asks, casting an eye on the cookware hanging from the
rack over the sink.
“Oh, no. You
want this.” I pull a double-burner griddle out of a lower cabinet.
“Oooh,” he says.
“Mommy has the fancy pancake griddle.”
Kate giggles.
She’s gazing at Liam as if he invented fun.
And in my life,
I guess he did.
Here’s the
tricky thing about being a shrink—sometimes you notice that you’re doing
something that’s exactly contrary to the advice you’d give your patients.
I’m having one
of those moments right now.
If I had a
single mom in my office telling me there was a lovely guy in her life who was
kind to her kids—and yet she was giving him the stiff arm? I’d tell her: “Be
kind to yourself. Don’t push away the good people in your life, especially if
you think you don’t deserve them. Let people surprise you.”
I’m such a
hypocrite.
Also, I need
caffeine.
Ten minutes later
I’m sipping from a mug of coffee, but Liam’s is cooling on the countertop. The
man has his hands full right now as he puts pancakes on the griddle with “help”
from my daughters.
“How about a few
of these?” he asks, holding up a bag of chocolate chips. Meanwhile, Kate waves
the spatula around like a ninja. “A guy needs to make smiley faces in his
pancakes sometimes.”
Good. Lord. It’s
a miracle I’m not just a puddle of my former self right now. This is some
serious mommy porn I’m watching. Shirtless
guy feeds toddlers before eight a.m. I walk over to the high cabinet where
I keep the ramekins. “We could make smiley faces with dried organic currants,”
I say, just to be a pain in the ass.
Liam makes a
face of disgust as I take the chocolate chips from his hand and pour some into
a ramekin. “Joking! Here.”
He gives me a
big, hot smile. Okay, it probably wasn’t meant to be hot, but I feel flutters
down below.
“Choc-it!” Kate
yells, grabbing for the ramekin.
“Easy,” Liam
says with a laugh. “That’s for my artwork. Come here and I’ll show you.”
I set the table
and pour the sippy cups of milk. And Liam manages to serve up two smiley
pancakes—one for each girl—at exactly the same moment, in exactly the same
size. This is a man who knows his way around toddlers.
“Not cut it!”
Amy yells when I approach her plate with a knife. She picks up the pancake in
two hands and takes a bite right out of the side of its face.
“Okay, right.” I
back away. Forks are optional today, then. No big deal.
Liam takes
advantage of this moment of quiet to quickly pour six more pancakes onto the
griddle. He leans over his work, dotting them with chocolate chips.
I step closer to
him and put a hand on his lower back. “Thank you,” I whisper.
“For trashing
your kitchen?”
“No.” He glances
at me and I give him a shy smile. “For being so amazing all the time.”
His eyes get
very warm, and I just want to stay right here in that blue-eyed gaze as long as
I can. “This might be a good time to confess that I didn’t make smiley faces on
my own pancakes.”
“No?” I look
down at the griddle. Side by side, two of them have a different design—little
bullseyes in their centers. “Those are…?”
“Boobs,” he
whispers. “My inner fourteen-year-old has a dirty mind. He can’t shut it off
sometimes.”
“Drink your
coffee,” I whisper, handing him the mug. “Sit down. Let me finish these for
you. Or go put on a shirt because my
inner fourteen-year-old has her tongue hanging out all the time, too.”
He gives me a wicked, wicked smile
and then runs upstairs to find his shirt.
