A Christmas Caroline by Camilla Isley

Eleven

Forget about Prince Charming

If, in the night’s quiet, having a fake family and a loving husband had an appeal, the next morning brings me squarely back into a, “I’m having my tubes closed” attitude.

Sam gets up with Bram’s first feeding at six a.m. and skips breakfast in favor of a travel mug of coffee. Before leaving, he kisses me on the forehead and asks again if I’ll be okay on my own.

And since I’ve always been more proud than practical, I tell him to go, no problem.

Once Bram falls asleep, I attempt to mimic yesterday’s routine by bringing him downstairs with me and setting him in his crib. Of course, the mothersucker wakes up the second I put him down and starts crying, lifting his arms to be picked up. I bargain with him to no avail, it’s either hold him or the ear-splitting wails. And I try to move around carrying him under one arm on my hip, but after three minutes my arm is about to fall off, my back is killing me, and I’ve spilled the coffee three times already trying to pour it in the filter one-handed—at least today I remembered to add water to the tank.

This won’t do. I drop Bram in his crib, ignoring the wailing no matter how much my nipples are begging me not to, and search the house for the sling Sam used yesterday. I find it on the rack in the entrance hall and strap it to my chest and back, adjusting the length of the straps to accommodate my tinier body. Once the baby is secured and his weight is evenly distributed, I have two free hands and am able to make coffee. Next, I have to wake up the other two. I go to Jo’s room as she seems the easier mark. I shake her awake and kiss her on the forehead.

“Time to get up, honey.”

She rubs sleep from her eyes with her fists and sits up on the bed.

“I’ll be right down, Mommy.”

See, that wasn’t so hard.

Next, I venture into Will’s room. He takes longer to wake. I have to nag him, kiss him, tickle him, and ultimately, only threatening to leave works. Will kneels on the bed and offers his arms to be picked up.

I oblige him and trudge down the stairs with the two little monkeys hanging from my torso without breaking an ankle.

Results.

In the kitchen, I’ve barely secured Will into his highchair when he screams, “Pee, weee, I have to go peee peee.”

In a panic, I hurry to unbuckle him and pick him up again. I rush to the downstairs bathroom as fast as I can with a baby strapped to my chest and one in my arms, but there’s no potty. I don’t care. I lower Will’s pants and underpants and sit him on the toilet without letting go of his tiny torso.

“You can pee like the grownups.”

Bathroom emergency averted, we go back into the kitchen where Jo has served herself a bowl of milk and is already eating herCocoa Krispies—promptly re-stoked yesterday.

I kiss her on the head. “Thank goodness for you.”

Making Will eat breakfast is the pitiful task I’d expected. I have to remake his oats three times before I get to a consistency the little brat will accept and cut a banana to precisely the right dimension and hand-feed the small cubes to him because he refuses the spoon. By the time the ordeal is over, the kitchen is a mess and I’m utterly exhausted. At least the cat didn’t throw up today.

I peek at the clock hanging over the door. Only eight-thirty. How will I make it to the end of the day alive?

“What time does the bookshop open?” I ask Jo.

“Nine-thirty,” she says. “But don’t worry, Pam always opens up. When we’re off school, we usually go at around ten.”

Pam. Sam mentioned I have a couple of employees; she must be one.

I stare at the clock again. Ninety minutes to get us to the shop seems doable.

“Okay,” I say. “Guess we all need to get dressed and then we can go.”

Jo eyes me skeptically. “Mmm, Mom, aren’t you loading the dishwasher?”

“Dishwasher, sure.”

“Down!” Will orders from the highchair.

“What’s the matter now?” I ask.

“He doesn’t enjoy being in the highchair.”

Is there anything he likes? I refrain from asking.

I’m pondering if I can have Will strolling around the kitchen while I clean up when the doorbell rings.

Ignoring the toddler’s protests, I leave him in the highchair to go answer the door and find my mom on the doorstep.

In my universe, a surprise visit from my mother would irritate me to no end and immediately spur an interior debate on how fast I could get rid of her. Today, I almost collapse with gratitude at finding her at my door.

I hug her, squashing Bram, still strapped on me, between us. “Oh, thank goodness you came.”

Mom makes a mock military salute. “Grandma to the rescue. What do you need me to do?”

I consider the two most imminent tasks: cleaning the kitchen versus washing and dressing the kids. Dirty dishes win over dirty diapers without a contest.

“Could you get the kids dressed?”

“Sure,” Mom says.

I hand her Bram and go free Will from the dreaded highchair. With the expert touch of a professional grandma, my mom takes Will’s hand and guides him upstairs while keeping Bram on her hip. Guess she’s more practiced than me.

“Do you need any help, Mom?” Jo asks. “I can show you how the dishwasher works and where we keep the dish soap.”

I’m sure I could’ve figured it out on my own, but my daughter seems to relish in her housekeeping competence, so I let her teach me and then send her upstairs to get changed.

Forty-five minutes later, my mom presents me with three perfectly washed-up, dressed kids.

I hug her again. “Thanks, Mom, you’re a lifesaver.”

If any doubts were left, I can now one hundred percent agree with my sister’s decision to move back to our hometown to be close to our parents.

“Will you get to work, okay?” Mom asks.

“I can manage five blocks.”

“Because Will can stay with me if you want to.”

This prompts my middle kid to launch himself at me and cling to one of my legs for dear life. “I want to go with Mommy!”

“Guess that settles it,” I say. “Don’t worry, Mom, we’ll be fine.”

As my mom leaves, I consider the best way to safely walk those five blocks. I can keep Bram in the sling like Sam did yesterday, and Jo seems mature enough to trail along on her own. But what of Will? Does he walk or does he have a stroller?

I ask Jo.

“Will and Bram go in the double stroller,” she instructs me. “And I help you push.”

“And where do we keep the stroller?”

“In the garage.”

I put coats on everyone, strap the kids in the stroller, and I suppose we’re ready to go.

Except Jo keeps giving me side stares. “Did I forget something, honey?”

“Did you make Will pee?”

“Do I have to make him pee?”

“If he doesn’t pee before we leave, he’ll probably have to go while we’re walking and then do it in his pants.”

Not a scenario I want to experience. I quickly unstrap Will from the stroller and pick him up. “And how do I make him pee?”

“Leave him on the potty until he goes.”

“All right, please stay with your brother while we go.”

I leave her and Bram in the garage and go back into the house with Will.

I sit him on the downstairs potty, which I discovered is in the half bath, and wait for a good fifteen minutes before anything happens. We could’ve gotten to the shop already, but I won’t discount Jo’s wisdom. If she says Will has to pee before we leave the house, then he has to pee before we leave the house.

When I get back to the garage, I find my daughter pushing her brother in circles around the room.

“Bram was crying,” she explains. “So, I put him to sleep.”

For a quasi-seven-year-old, she’s extremely mature.

I kiss her on the head. “You’re an angel.”

“Angel, too,” Will protests.

“Yes, you’re an angel, too,” I say and kiss him even if I’m not entirely convinced of his angelhood.

“Can we go now?” I ask. “Or did I forget something else?”

“Did you take Bram’s bag, in case he poops himself?”

I did not.

Once again, I go back into the house to retrieve the bag, and, finally, we’re good to go.

At ten on the dot and not a minute earlier, we push our way into the shop, prompting the bell over the door to announce our arrival.

A blonde young woman who, if I had to describe, I’d say is a doppelgänger of Anita in the 101 Dalmatians cartoon, rushes to welcome us.

“Caroline, you made it. I couldn’t wait to tell you about this idea I’ve had for next month’s book club. Can I take the lead on that? Or you had something already in mind? Oh, and the administrative software has frozen again this morning, and I had to input half of January’s orders manually. My hand is cramping from all that typing. We should upgrade. On the positive side, Ingram’s delivery has arrived. And we might’ve gone a little over the top with the new inventory, but the amount of sensational new titles.” She pauses to sigh and, well, breathe, hopefully, and the onslaught of words resumes immediately after. “But I agree we couldn’t pass on any of those wonderful books. Do you want to stock the shelves and I man the shop, or would you like me to do the stocking? Or split in half? If you want to split, I call shotgun on fantasy and young adult.”

I blink at her in shock, not even sure of how many questions she’s asked me.

“Uh? Caroline?” Pam—this must be Pam—says.

“I guess no one’s told you,” I say.

“Told me what?”

“I had a bit of an accident on Christmas Eve.”

She gasps, bringing her hands over her heart. “Oh my gosh, are you alright?”

“Mostly,” I say, and then I get closer to her to whisper in her ear so that Will won’t hear me. “But I have a bad case of post-traumatic amnesia. The last seven years of my life, poof, have gone. Will doesn’t know, so please, no mention of the A-word in front of him.”

For a moment Pam is too shocked to speak, which must be an accomplishment on its own.

Then she stutters, “But—but we didn’t know each other seven years ago. You’ve no idea who I am?”

“You’re Pam, the shop clerk, or so I’ve been told.”

“Oh.” Her face falls as if I’ve just majorly downplayed her role in my life, which I probably have.

“FREEE!” Will screams from the stroller.

I’ve noticed he’s a selective talker. Sometimes he talks in articulate, full sentences, and at other times, he reverts to single-word phrases. Before he wakes Bram with another scream, I oblige his request, unbuckling his belt and dropping him on the floor.

Will’s feet have barely touched the rugs that he’s already meandering through the bookshelves heading for a specific section of the store.

“Where is he going?” I ask.

“Epic Fantasy aisle,” Pam says.

That seems like an odd choice for a toddler. “Why?”

“He likes to build railroads and bridges with thick books.”

I park the stroller behind the counter and follow in Will’s steps.

He’s already at work, freeing the bottom shelf of all its books.

“And we let him?”

“Oh, yeah,” Pam says. “Consider it an alternative display. Customers love watching him play, and often end up picking up a book, especially women.” Pam puts her hand partially over her mouth as if to speak in my ear. “Honestly, it’s one of the few proven strategies to get rid of the non-sellers.”

I’m about to reply when something brushes against my legs, making me jump with a yelp. An extraordinarily fat cat is brushing against my calves.

“There’s a cat. What’s a cat doing in the shop?”

Pam bends down to pick the furry monster up. “This is Winston.” She waves one of his paws in greeting. “The shop cat.”

“As in he lives here? He wasn’t here yesterday.”

“Well, no. I take him home with me when I go at night, but he likes to spend his days here.”

“So, you mean he’s really your cat that you bring to work.” I pause, bewildered. “Why?”

“Well, because he likes it, and customers love him.” She nuzzles his head. “And it’d be just plain mean to leave him home all alone all day long.”

The cat meows in agreement and bumps his head under Pam’s chin.

“Should I have brought Mr. Winkle-whiskers?” I ask, thinking of my cat alone all day. Did Jo forget to tell me?

Pam shakes her head decisively. “Nooo, nope, no. They’re sworn enemies.”

“And my cat doesn’t suffer being home alone all day?”

“Mr. Winkle-whiskers is more of a free spirit, and if he feels alone, he can always visit your mom or your sister. Plus, he doesn’t like the shop as much as Winston and isn’t as well behaved.” Pam scratches her cat behind the ears. “You’re such a good boy, aren’t you?”

The cat gives her another chin bump and then tries to get free.

She lets Winston down, but instead of scurrying away, the brown and gray cat lifts on his hind legs, placing his front paws on my thighs.

“What does he want?” I ask.

“He wants you to pick him up. He hasn’t seen you in two days and he misses you.”

I pick up Winston, who weighs more than Bram, and hold him awkwardly in my arms. He purrs all the same.

“We get along?”

“Perfectly.”

“And he doesn’t sharpen his claws on the books?”

“Nooo, he’s very well trained and uses his cat tree by the café for that. He spends most of his time there being petted by patrons.”

“Mom.” Jo tugs on my sweater. “Can I bring Winston to the fairy tale section with me?”

“Sure, honey.”

I hand over the cat, check one last time that Will is doing okay—he seems taken with his construction work, and ask Pam to show me the ropes of how the shop runs. From basic stuff like how the registry works, to our stocking system and how we run the café—apparently whichever one of us is free also serves coffee and pastries to clients.

Bram wakes up after an hour, I feed him in the mommies’ room and change his diaper alone for the first time. Thankfully, there’s no poop spillage and I don’t have to remove all his clothes but just the diaper. The result is a little lopsided, but for a first-timer, I’m proud of myself.

Before I know it, it’s already midday and time to go home to feed the other two kids and myself. Pam told me I hired a new junior clerk, Elsie, after having Bram, and I want to leave before she arrives. I don’t care to explain the whole amnesia business twice in one morning, so I’ve asked Pam to please bring Elsie up to speed before going on her lunch break.

With some protests, I convince Will to help me put back the books on their shelf with the promise that he can resume his civil engineering later. I secure him and Bram in the stroller and go fetch Jo in the fairy tale aisle. She’s sitting on the rugs, back leaning against a bookcase, deeply immersed in a book.

“Honey, it’s time to go home,” I tell her.

“Can I read for another ten minutes?”

I shake my head. “It’s late already.”

“But, Mom, Prince Charming is about to wake up Snow White with a true love’s kiss.”

I refrain from telling her that instead of wasting her dreams on Prince Charming she should focus on the animals that clean the house. What would I give now for laundering squirrels, tidying birds, and cooking rabbits… ah, a girl can dream.

“You can finish the story this afternoon.”

“But what if someone buys the book while I’m gone?”

“Let’s put it in the back,” I say with a cheeky grin. “That way no one will find it.”

We hide the book behind a stash of other titles and I finally have all three kids ready to go.