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Not even two minutes later, the sound of tiny feet padding across the carpet meets my ears. And then, a tug on my shirt tail. “Mama! Did you heard me?”

I pivot to face her, and when she extends her arms up toward me, I reach down and pick up her, depositing her into the countertop. “I did hear you, Tater Tot.”

She pouts. “Then why you not answer?”

“Why do you think?” I ask, with a smile in my voice. I don’t want her to think I’m scolding her when I’m only teaching.

“A’cause I didn’t come to you?”

“Bingo.” I boop her on the nose, and she giggles. “What’d you need?”

“I not remember,” she mutters, displeased to no end.

“It’ll come to you. Why don’t you go play while I cook?”

“I help?”

“Absolutely.” I set her back down onto the floor before pulling her step stool out of the laundry room. “Wanna help me mix?”

“Yes! I’m a good mixer! Da best!”

She stands patiently in front of her stool as she waits for further instruction. “You are. Let me get you something to stir with.” I grab her pink and red whisk that came in a Mommy-and-Me set I saw at Target. She also has her pint-sized apron and oven mitts. Yeah, I might’ve gone a little overboard the second she showed an interest in cooking—so much like her daddy.

I add our ingredients to the bowl: one cup of shredded, skinless rotisserie chicken, one cup of mixed garden veggies, and three-quarters of a cup of cream of chicken.

“All right, get to mixing!”

She hops up onto her stool, and I stand behind her, bracing her while also supervising her mixing. Once she has everythingmostlyfolded together, I sprinkle it all with poultry seasoning and pepper, and instruct her to give it one last stir.

Then I sprinkle a little flour onto the countertop, which Tatum thinks is hilarious. Through stitches of laughter, she informs me I’ve made a big mess, but I only smile. Once she gets her wits about her, she helps me roll out the store-bought crescent dough. I grab a glass down from the cabinet and use it to cut out six perfect circles of dough. I lay each one in its own spot in the muffin tin.

“Hey, can you do Mama another favor?”

She nods.

“In the drawer right next to the fridge, there’s an ice cream scooper. Can you grab it for me?”

Another nod.

With the scooper in hand, I guide her through adding the creamy chicken goodness on top of each circle of dough. “What’s we do with those?” Tatum asks, gesturing to the little leftover strips of crescent dough.

“Ah!” I exclaim. “Those are the most important part.” We place two strips on top of each scoop of chicken and then step back to admire our handiwork. “Well, Tater Tot, nothin’ left to do but to bake it now.”

With the fun part over, Tatum retreats to her room, and I slide the pot pie muffins into the oven, setting the timer.

I decide to make the best of the wait time and paint my toenails. Anything to keep me busy—to keep my mind occupied. And when I’m done, I paint my daughter’s too.

The timer goes off right as I finish polishing Tatum’s little piggies. “Stay here,” I tell her, knowing she’d be sad if she smeared her polish. I walk to the kitchen mostly on my heels, with my toes spread apart—I’m sure I look nutso, but hey, I don’t want my pretty pink polish to get messed up either.

After dishing up one muffin for Tatum and two for myself, I cut up an apple and grab us each a piece of cheese.Dinner of champions, y’all.I carry our plates to the table and then make the short trek back to the living room to grab my girl.

Once we’ve both joined the clean plate club, as my mother would call it, I tell Tatum it’s time to get dressed to go to Uncle Nate’s. She pumps both of her little fists over her head and squeals, her excitement palpable. If only I were confident in tonight going off without a hitch. If only I had her childlike naivety.If only, if only, if only…

We gothrough the same song and dance of getting dressed like we always do—I lay out an outfit for Tatum, and she dresses herself anyway. Then, we compromise. Tonight, that leaves her wearing a rainbow tulle skirt and a neon pink graphic tee proclaiminga little kindness can change the world—and Lord knows that’s true. Her hair is styled into pigtails—the right one sitting a smidge higher—with mismatched bows. Which is all too fitting when you take in her mismatched Converse as well.

Compared to her, in my white skinny jeans, casual gray knotted-front top and nude flats, I’m plain Jane and boring. In an effort to spice things up, I tease the crown of my hair and gather it into a messy, high ponytail. I coat my lashes in mascara, swipe some berry-colored gloss over my lips, and grab my olive-green slouchy cardigan because Nate keeps his house roughly the temperature of a walk-in fridge.

I throw an extra pair of panties and a pull-up into my bag for Tatum, along with her juice cup and a baggie of cinnamon Goldfish crackers. I start to holler for Tatum, but quickly clamp my lips shut, knowing it will undo my teaching hernotto yell through the house. Instead, I set off in search of her, finding her in her bedroom packing her own bag. And—spoiler alert—it’s full of toys.