Somewhere in a nearby universe
I wrote this four years ago (LITERALLY), and it’s been in my drafts all this time. I never finished it or made it better than drafty but, oh well, I’m tired of having it in there so, here, have some mother’s day fluff.
“Daddy?…Daddyyyy?…Daaaaddyyyyyyyyyyy…”
Peter’s first instinct is to ignore the call coming from somewhere really close to his face, as he is still blissfully numbed with sleep.
But someone has inherited stubbornness from their mother.
He feels something small poke his cheek, and has no other choice but to open his eyes, only to find Etta standing next to his side of the bed, one her tiny fingers pressed into his cheekbone.
He moves his blurry eyes from his daughter to the clock sitting on the night stand, and groans a little when he sees that it’s barely past 6am, quickly closing his eyes again and burying his face in his pillow. Olivia is usually the one who gets up in the morning with their three year old, as their kid has inherited more from her mother than her stubbornness -the tendency to wake up at the break of dawn, for example.
As if reading his thoughts, Etta then says directly into his ear, in a very loud whisper: “You said I had to wake you today and not mommy, so we can make her breast-kast.”
“I did, didn’t I?” he grumbles, feeling Olivia’s hand on his back, under the covers, her nails slowly raking his skin . She’s obviously feigning sleep, but she’s already getting a kick out of this, judging by the way he feels her smile against his shoulder-blade.
He turns his head to look at Etta, who has started to bounce on the spot, her big blue eyes wide with excitement. Her wavy blond hair is as untidy as ever at this hour of the day, and it bounces off her shoulders as she keeps on jumping, staring at him expectantly.
“Fine, let’s make breast-kast,” he says with a smile, as he is convinced that nothing will ever be as endearing as his daughter’s adorable inability to pronounce breakfast correctly. “Go in the kitchen, I’ll join you in a minute.”
She lets out a delighted squeal, which would have definitely woken up her mother, had she been really sleeping, and she’s out of the room within the next three seconds. His head falls back into his pillow and he groans again, as Olivia chuckles softly against his skin.
“I can get up, if you want,” she offers, but he shakes his head, swiftly turning around to face her, nuzzling her nose.
“Uh uh. It’s Mother’s Day. Etta and I promised to be your slave for 24 hours. Which of course means I am going to be the slave, while you girls order me around. I know how these things work.”
She smiles tenderly, her hand now rubbing his arm, before saying in a suggestive tone: “Tell me you don’t enjoy being bossed around by a strong woman every now and then.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Keep on saying things like this, and I’ll never make it to the kitchen.”
She presses a quick kiss to his lips, before using her hand to playfully push him away. “Go, before she sets the place on fire trying to make pancakes all by herself.”
And indeed, pancakes are exactly what Etta had in mind, and she insists on making them from scratch. He doesn’t object in the least; now that he is out of bed and in the company of their lively three year old, sleep has become the farthest thing on his mind, enjoying every moment he gets to spend with her.
By the time they are done mixing everything together, she is pretty much covered with flour from head to toe. They make them in the shape of a whale, because ‘Grandpa Walter has taught her all about whales’ last week, and she tells him all about it, hanging from his neck, as they observe their concoction bubbling in a pan. She also suggests that he should make one in the shape of a heart because it’s romantic, and is temporarily saddened when he tells her they’re out of pink food coloring.
They butter some toasts and pour coffee in Etta’s very special cup, which she has made for the occasion; she insists on carrying the white tulip that was supposed to be decorating their breakfast tray, and he lets her run back into their bedroom ahead of him. When he reaches the room, mere seconds after her, she has already jumped on the bed and onto her mother, the two of them now wrestling as they often are, Olivia doing all the tickling while Etta does the giggling.
“Happy Mother’s Day,” he announces from the doorway with a stupid grin on his face, and Olivia blows strands of hair off her face, offering him a matching smile.
“Very happy indeed,” she agrees, before wrapping Etta fully into her arms and pressing a loud kiss against her neck, which causes her to let out another giggly squeal. “I’m surprised you didn’t turn into a pancake,” Olivia chuckles, brushing flour off her girl’s face. “You’re all messy.”
“Cooking is a messy art,” Etta quotes solemnly, and Olivia kisses the tip of her nose.
“You spend way too much time with your grandfather.”
romaincrisis
origamiaround
gummygunk
jbbartram-illu
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2087
