Page 12 of All in for Christmas

“Er, sure!” The coffee maker’s right in front of me to the left of the sink.

I check the drawer immediately below me, but it’s filled with coffee filters, a brush for dusting out the coffee grinder, a cheese grater.

Hmm. I slide shut the drawer and try the next drawer over, as Dean engages the kids in conversation.

“We’ll have to add a new item to our calendar this morning,” he tells them. “Whose turn is it?”

Shoot. This drawer is ice cream scoops and cake servers. A garlic press? What’s with us? Must be on the other side of the sink.

“Mine!” Eleanor shouts while Henry cries, “Me, Daddy! Me!”

Dean rubs his chin and glances at me. “What do you think, Mommy?”

I yank open the refrigerator door and hide behind it, grabbing the skim milk.

No. I hastily return it to the shelf, selecting the cream.

When in Rome… I shrug uselessly at Dean, shutting the door.

“Can’t remember.” That’s God’s honest truth.

I dump in some sugar from the sugar bowl next, but I can’t stir my mug without a spoon.

Maybe silverware’s in the drawer beyond the dishwasher to the right of the sink?

I tiptoe over and slowly slide it open. Ahh!

Paydirt. Knives, forks, and spoons nest in neat rows, divided in an organized holder.

“Found it!” I say, triumphantly holding up a teaspoon.

Dean wrinkles his forehead and stares at me. “Great going! Would you mind, uh…” He makes a circular motion over the table with his hand.

“Yes, yes! Right away.” I grab three forks and three knives, dart a look at Eleanor.

No. Maybe not a big knife for her. Oh, there.

That one seems smaller and kiddie-size. I spot a fork with a handle shaped like a rocket ship.

That must be Henry’s. I grab the rocket fork and a smaller adult fork for Eleanor.

It’s a salad fork, I think, with a little diamond cutout below its prongs. Wait. Mom used to have this set.

Dean clears his throat and I slam shut the drawer.

The cutlery inside jangles. “Coming!” I wear a bright smile and scurry back over to the table, doling out the silverware.

I set each piece down and pause, waiting for someone to make a correction, or for Eleanor to call me out on it, precocious child that she is.

Nobody says a thing except for Dean, who smiles and says, “Thanks, Mommy.” So I sink down in my chair holding my coffee mug, my face flushed. Whew.

Dean crosses his arms and studies the advent calendar.

It’s so pretty and cheerful, identical to the one in my sleek condo on the sixth floor.

Only it’s not that one; it’s this one here.

Though I’m not sure why they’d be different, it’s even tougher to understand how they could be one and the same. So much to process.

“I think it was your turn yesterday, Eleanor,” Dean finally says. “Didn’t you put up the gingerbread man?”

She slumps lower in her chair, looking guilty.

“Maybe?” I can tell by the gleam in her eyes that she’s hedging the truth.

Though I can’t blame her. Who wouldn’t want to have all the fun and get tasked with decorating the advent calendar every day?

I chuckle at her cuteness, unable to help myself.

Even as an adult, I can relate to her feelings.

“Then it’s Henry’s turn today,” Dean announces decisively.

Henry cheers with chubby little fists. “Yay!” He’s a super cute munchkin with his shaggy blond hair and big blue eyes.

“We’ll do that right after breakfast,” Dean says. I timidly hold up my hand like a student in class. Dean eyes me curiously. “Yes, Paige?”

“Er. Who put up the star?” I probably shouldn’t ask, but I’m honestly dying to know.

Dean chuckles in confusion and scratches the side of his head. “Why, you did, hon. Don’t you remember? We were supposed to wait until Christmas Day with that one, but you said it was my Christmas Comet.”

“Ah haaaa.” Oh my goodness. This is so freaky.

What’s happening? Did I somehow cause this time split by messing with the order of things?

I see the snowman’s wedged in the pocket for day twenty.

Same as it was at my place. Uh. My other place.

Alternate place. Alternate reality condo.

Ooh, my head hurts. No. This isn’t real.

Just an extended dream or hallucination of some sort.

I swallow hard. I hope I’m not cracking up.

Please, please, please, please don’t let that be the case.

Dean serves the breakfast plates, starting with the kids’, then mine. “Two or three?” he asks me about the pancakes. I release a shaky breath, pulling myself together. No one ever cooks for me at my condo. I don’t even cook for myself.

“Two’s great, thanks.” I decide to go easy on the starchy stuff, planning to load up on bacon.

It smells so fantastic, I can’t wait. The salty, cured aspect might help balance out all the sugar in my coffee.

I’m on my second mugful now, and it’s growing on me.

While also perhaps making me overly caffeinated, but maybe that’s okay.

I need to be wide awake to stay on top of all that’s happening. Which is—a lot.

Dean slides Henry’s plate in front of him, cutting the pancakes into child-size bites. “Go ahead.” He looks at me and Eleanor. “You ladies dig in.”

“Can I have some syrup, Mommy?” Eleanor asks. “Please?”

“Such manners!” I say with delight. I adorn her pancakes with an elaborate squirt, making a fun swirling motion as I trickle it on.

Henry sulks over his juice glass with big sad eyes. “Where’s Mommy’s wee-wee?” he asks Dean.

Heat seeps through me. Henry’s evidently been stewing over this for the past several minutes, ever since seeing me naked in the shower. “I, er—”

Dean places Henry’s plate in front of him and hands him the rocket fork. “We can talk about that later, buddy.”

“No, no,” I say, not wanting to make the wrong impression on the kids. They shouldn’t be embarrassed about their bodies. Says the woman who cowered in the shower. But that was different. I was surprised. I glance at Dean. “It’s fine. We can talk about it now.”

Eleanor sits up straighter in her seat and informs her baby brother, “Mommies and daddies have different ’natomy.”

Dean blinks. “That’s very good, Eleanor, and correct.”

The girl beams at me. “Mommy told me.”

“I what?” I take a sip of orange juice. “Oh yes, of course.”

She nods at her dad. “When we were changing Henry’s diapers.”

He’s in diapers? Panic grips me. “But I thought.” I peek at Henry’s bottom half under the table. His pajama pants do look a bit baggy. I start eating faster without knowing why. I feel like a hungry beast that’s about to get my food snatched away from me.

“Anatomy lessons, huh.” Dean winks at me.

“Silver lining to him still toilet training.” What?

Oh, no. I have the sinking feeling I’m going to get called into potty action.

I mentally scroll through the ways to avoid it.

None of them seem very mommy-like. I’ve never toilet trained anybody.

They don’t teach you that in teacher training programs!

Maybe in preschool training programs. Or daycare. My forehead feels really, really hot.

I cover my remaining pancakes with more syrup. “How old is Henry?”

Dean wrinkles up his face. “Thirty-three months, but you know that.”

“Haha! Right.” What? Nooo. I’ve read up on this stuff.

It could be a full half year before he’s trained completely.

Or more. I chew, chew, chew. Instinctively downing my food.

Faster and faster in a form of self-preservation.

I try not to focus on toilets and wiping bums, considering Dean’s culinary skills instead. He’s great at making breakfast.

“We’ll get there soon enough,” he says to Henry. “Won’t we, buddy?”

Henry gurgles with laughter. “O-tay!”

This entire conversation seems to somehow plant a seed in Henry’s brain. Because two seconds later, while I’m woofing down my remaining pancakes, he turns to me. “I go pee-pee.”

My fork clanks against the plate and I steady it.

Dean winces, his shoulders lowered. “Power of suggestion?”

“Ha, yeah.” I shove some crispy bacon in my mouth and then some more. Tasty. I hope I don’t have to take Henry to the potty. Please let it be Dean. Please, please.

I want to shout, I’m new here! Of course I can’t.

Dean pushes back his chair. Thank goodness.

But Henry hangs his head and pouts. “Mommy take me.” Mommy. Great. I wait for Dean to relieve me. He doesn’t. He goes right back to eating his pancakes in a leisurely fashion, like it’s already been settled. He did cook, to be fair. However. Nobody warned me of the trade-off in advance.

“Ahh, okay.” I wipe my mouth with my napkin and stand.

Wrangle Henry out of his booster seat. My gosh, he’s heavy.

What do we feed him? Loaded baked potatoes?

Take him by his pudgy hand. Peek over my shoulder.

“We’ll be right back!” My jaw tenses. Come on, Paige.

You can do this. He’s just a little boy. Your little boy. I think I might faint.

“Don’t forget the bull’s-eye!” Dean reminds me. I have no idea what he means.

I’m crouched in the bathroom, madly hunting through the cabinet beneath the sink.

There’s not much under here but extra toothpaste and bathroom cups.

Hand soap dispensers. A stash of training pants, which are something like heavy-duty diapers wanting to become undies with cartoon designs.

Then I see Henry pointing to the shelving unit mounted above the commode.

It looks like a tissue box but it’s not.

It’s something called “Toilet Targets.” Seriously?