Wyatt puts on his stubborn face. It’s like he turned eight and decided to never lose a battle again, at least with me. “She said we should ask you now that we’re so responsible. She said taking care of him would be good for us. Mom won’t get a dog. She’s gone too much. I think we should get a big dog, not a little barky one. Rosie agrees.”
Callie is watching this verbal ping-pong with wide eyes. I take her by the hand and walk down the driveway to retrieve the basketball they left by the curb. Wyatt follows us, skipping in his eagerness to be right.
“Did Rosalie say all that, Callie?” I ask.
Obviously not the part about their mom, which is a thinly veiled guilt trip, but I guess it’s possible they discussed getting adog while they were playing with one. I’m really trying not to be annoyed. A dog is a big decision.
Callie nods. “Uh-huh. I want a dog, too. I got a scrape on my knee. Wanna see?”
Callie shows me the evidence of her scrape, and even though Rosalie comes out the front door right then and jogs across the front lawn to her beat-up Toyota 4Runner, I keep my focus on my daughter.
Rosalie waves goodbye, and then she’s driving away, steering with one hand while she lifts her blonde ponytail off her neck.
“Where is she going in such a hurry?” I ask.
“Home to shower. She says she smells, too.” Wyatt sighs. “Rosie never smells bad, though. She’s just kinda sweaty. She left a note for you on the calendar. It says we should shower as soon as we go in.”
“You should.” I’m surprised he’s willing, but all that grass on him is probably itchy.
Once inside, I send Wyatt straight into his bathroom and stop to check the oversized day planner we keep on the desk in the kitchen. Rosalie and I communicate the business of our lives through calendar events, shopping lists, and everyday sticky notes. Sure enough, there’s a line of new sticky notes with the day journaled out, ending with an apology about Callie’s scrape and the fact that they’re not showered yet. She says they had a great time playing outside. The last line says dinner is warming in the oven.
The oven is turned off, but there’s a square casserole dish inside with lasagna bubbling.
There are no notes about dogs, not that I expected there would be. I’m so torn. I don’t like that they talked about getting a dog without me. I’m irritated that the kids only want to watch TV when I’m around and I never get invited to play in the sprinklers. Mostly, I’m mad that I’m mad at someone who made me dinner.
Rosalie doesn’t have to do that. She just does.
This must be why she goes into task-mode when she’s emotional. Time and work dampen everything in a way noamount of self-talk does. I get Callie cleaned up and put a bandage on her knee. I get Wyatt out of the shower he’d stay in until the dawn of time despite the fact that he protests getting in every day. We eat dinner, and I do the dishes.
Wyatt doesn’t say a word about our earlier conversation, but he watches me carefully, and he’s overly cheerful and helpful. He’s angling-for-something helpful. The kid must really want a dog.
After dinner, I hide the TV remote and make them build a blanket fort with me in the living room. Even if the idea came from FOMO, it’s still the best thing we’ve done together all week. We take turns racing through it and timing each other. Callie wears a pair of Wyatt’s old kneepads so she doesn’t hurt her scraped knee while she speed-crawls to victory.
It’s only while I’m reading them a good night story that I interrupt the slow part and give Wyatt a stern look. I don’t want him going to bed thinking I’m avoiding the only thing he really wants to talk about. “A dog is a big responsibility.”
“I know—”
“For me. It’s a big responsibility for me. If it needs to go to the vet or if we’re leaving on vacation, who figures that out?”
Wyatt frowns. “You do.”
“And if it needs to be dewormed?”
A chorus of “ewww” greets my ears.
“A dog is not a toy. It would become part of our family. I need to think about this, okay?”
“Okay.”
I hug Wyatt to me and rock him from side to side like he’s a baby, which makes him smile and roll his eyes.
“I love you, Wy. Go to bed. I need to make some phone calls.”
“Wait, what happened to the bear?” Callie climbs over the top of Wyatt with our abandoned book and puts it back into my hands.
“Right. Let’s finish this chapter, and then it’s bedtime or else. I hear you guys have some kind of safari lady who comes and protects the halls from monsters while you sleep.”
“No,she’sthe monster.” Callie giggles. “She tries to catch us out of bed. We pretend she’s the meanest.”