Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 61672 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 308(@200wpm)___ 247(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61672 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 308(@200wpm)___ 247(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
But this feels like a huge responsibility of a different kind. Jack is an empty canvas, an absorbent sponge. Anything he learns can have a big impact on his understanding of the world. I don’t want to fuck it up.
I clear my throat. “That’s because people don’t lay eggs, Jack. We’re mammals.”
“Mam-mus?” Jack asks. “What’s that?”
“Mammals,” I repeat slowly. Is this too hard for a three-year-old? I glance at Grace, who observes us with a big, amused smile. At least I’m not doing anything wrong. “That means babies live in their moms’ bellies before they’re born and they drink milk from their moms as well. A mammal also has hair or fur instead of feathers.”
A tiny frown knots Jack’s little eyebrows. Maybe I should make it simpler? “Am I a mammal?”
“Of course you are.” I inhale fresh, fragrant air and realize I was holding my breath because I was too absorbed in watching Jack think.
“Are you a mammal, Mom?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Are you a mammal, Matt?” Jack asks. This morning, Grace gave me the go-ahead to tell Jack about how we’re related, but until it feels right, we both think it’s best that he call me by name. We should take this slow.
“I’m a mammal too.”
“Is Skippy a mammal?” he asks.
“Yes, he is.” Grace answers. To me, she whispers, “That’s Lily’s dog.”
Wow. My son is a genius. So young and he’s already figured out basic taxonomy.
“Why does he have hair all over?” Jack asks.
“We do too, honey.” Grace crouches down by the stroller, and I can’t help but notice the curve of her back as she takes Jack’s hand and runs her fingers over his skin. “Look. You have fine hairs all over.”
Jack stares, wide-eyed, at his own arm. A grin tugs my lips up; his face reminds me of my first time taking psychedelics. He studies Grace’s arm then looks up at me, eyes fixed on my forearms. With awe and wonder, he raises his eyebrows. “Wow. Matt is a mammal.”
I burst out laughing, and so does Grace. “Yeah. That’s what I told you, kid.”
If hairy arms are enough to impress Jack, this may not be as hard as I thought it would be.
But as we continue to walk around the park, Jack’s mood slowly sours.
It starts when Grace lets him get out of the stroller. He laughs maniacally as he runs toward a big bunch of pigeons, making them fly away in panic.
Seeing as the situation is in control and we’re pretty close to the public restrooms, Grace asks me to watch over Jack for five minutes.
How hard can it be, right? Famous last words.
As the sound of fluttering pigeon wings dissipates, Jack’s smile turns upside down. He spins around and around on the grass, looking for more birds to bully. Finding none, anguish contorts his face. It’s the end of the world.
“Hey, Jack. It’s okay, kid.” I crouch down and ruffle his feathers. “We’ll wait for Mommy to come back, and then we’ll go and find more birds, okay?”
“No birds,” he whimpers, his lips shaking.
Oh, shit.
“Hey, it’s okay. There are more birds, and we’ll find them. We just have to wait for Mommy first.”
“No birds,” Jack says as though he hasn’t heard me.
“No, no. There are birds, Jack. We’ll find them, and you can play with them again.” Even to my own ears, my voice sounds more desperate by the second.
Can a three-year-old sense that? He probably can, right? Shit. His eyes are already welling up with tears.
This is not looking good.
Jack’s wail pierces through the air, announcing his heartbreak to the park. His butt falls to the grass, his fists hitting the ground like his life has completely turned to shit. I don’t have to look around to know everybody’s staring.
Other families herd their kids elsewhere, afraid the weeping might be infectious. Couples glare at us as if swearing inwardly they won’t let their kids get so sad they turn into a blubbering mess.
I rub Jack’s back, telling him how sorry I am that he scared away the birds—why am I apologizing?—and consoling him with promises of more birds in his near future.
Those fucking birds. I’ll trap them in some big-ass cage so Jack can play with them whenever he wants. My housekeepers will whisper behind my back about it, and the neighbors will know me as the crazy guy who keeps pigeons as pets, but it’ll all be worth it.
“What happened?” Grace’s gentle voice asks from behind me, bringing me relief.
At the same time, I feel like I’ve failed my simple task of watching Jack for five minutes. Maybe fatherhood won’t be as easy as I thought after all.
Grace wraps her arms around Jack. That one simple gesture acts like a shroud that muffles Jack’s screaming, his volume shrinking and shrinking as Grace soothes him until he’s sobbing quietly, his little shoulders jerking up and down with his breaths.