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Improvisation: A Valentine's Day Story
Your eyes are on me as I look up nervously, bottom lip between my teeth, but if you heard me, you seem willing to forgive it this once. Your gaze returns to the television after a brief smile of encouragement, though I think I see it twitch back towards the table as I pull my leg up underneath me.
There is, of course, a slight crinkle, less slight than usual - perhaps enough so for you to hear even across the room. Sort of thing I should expect, I guess, since I don't have anything over it, other than the very bottom of my T-shirt. Which wouldn't be altogether unusual, at least when you have any say in the matter, were it the middle of summer. The middle of February usually brings about more conservative outfits, as neither of us (I hope...) would be particularly pleased about me getting frostbite.
Then again, the middle of February is, traditionally, cold. The world outside understands this, and is complying. Inside? A different story. On another day, I might suspect that whatever is wrong with the heater is not entirely mechanical, but, perhaps, some attempt by you to bring summer about early.
Your attention seems to be fully back to the TV now, so I turn mine to my hand. Is it just a little scrape? It looks like it might be too deep, but hope can be a beautiful thing and all that. Plus, it hasn't started to...
If there is one thing I need to learn in this world, it is not to think things like that. You may hear the defeated sigh that escapes from my lips, though I try to keep it quiet, as I watch the blood start to well up. Not much, yet, but I guess I should do something about it.
An idea pops into my head briefly, a half-remembered story from somewhere or another, and I almost decide to stay, to let the blood drip from my hand, let the circuit boards drink it up, an offering. It's not like anything else is working.
But, of course, that won't either, so I hop down from my chair, pad away towards the bathroom.
"You need some help?" your voice follows, stopping me in my tracks.
I can feel my lips attempting to form a pout. It is, admittedly, a struggle to force them around the words, "No, I'm okay," and to keep my head from nodding. You suspect as much, I'm sure - I can practically feel your eyes on me, and I know that by not turning around I'm not being particularly inconspicuous. On the other hand, maybe it's my diaper your eyes are on. I hadn't realized, until I stood up, quite how wet it had gotten.
"Are you sure?" you ask. I can hear your smile, start to reach down to pull down the back of my shirt, stop when I remember what I got up for in the first place.
"Yeah-huh," I answer, and I trot off to the bathroom before I can change my mind. I quickly rinse my hand, fully expecting to hear your footsteps behind me - you don't trust me in the bathroom by myself, generally - but if they're there, they're being quiet about it, so I allow myself to slow down a bit, take my time as I squat down to open up the first aid kit in the cabinet under the sink and dig through it for a band-aid.
There are a couple pretty ones, purple with stars and pink with rainbows, that remind me of when I was little(r), and mommy had just bought a new box of band-aids. There had been a special one, with some kind of cool design, and I'd made myself fall off the swings until I managed to scrape my knee badly enough to need it. I'd been hoping for some kind of arm injury, but it's hard to fall in a way to make that happen without risking an actual injury. Or it was hard for me, anyway. I thought I was pretty clever, though I imagine mommy saw through my plan when I spent the next week in shorts and skirts short enough to show off my band-aid.
I decide on a plain one this time, seeing as I'm -not- trying to draw attention to it, manage to one-handedly get it to stick on, albeit somewhat awkwardly.
"What are you up to now?" you ask, right as I begin to straighten up. You must have been extra sneaky - I didn't hear you coming down the hall - which I reward with a squeak and a sudden loss of balance that ends with me sitting on the floor in my squishy diaper.
You're quite amused, I'm sure, as I try to muster up what remains of my dignity and pour all of it into a perfectly innocent, "Nothing."
You kneel down in front of me, your hand reaching out for mine. I don't even consider giving you the wrong one until I've stretched out the injured one, at which point it's too late.
"Aww," you coo sympathetically. "Did you hurt yourself?" I shrug. "Why didn't you let me take care of it, baby?" I shrug again, the pout I'd repressed earlier beginning to make a comeback, seemingly strengthened by the loss. You smile down at me, reach up to brush away a stray, sweaty strand of hair, having somehow escaped from the scrunchie, bend forward and kiss my forehead.
"Well," you smile, hands moving to under my arms as you begin to stand, "I think I know something else I can take care of." You smile at the blush, even though we both know it's coming by now, that accompanies the pat you give the back of my soaked diaper.
"You know," you say, laying me down on the changing table, "you can always just use my computer."
"I know," I reply. "But I like mine better." I stick out my tongue, then start to squirm before your tickling fingers even reach my tummy.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
I blink uncertainly, trying to figure out how I had tipped the chair over, and when it had gotten so bright again. A couple more blinks bring the bars around me almost into focus, as much as they were like to get without my glasses. I must have fallen asleep working on my computer.
Just like you told me I was going to. You must have been very proud of yourself as you carried me back to my room and put me into my nightshirt. Luckily, you also tucked me in, since, now that I push back the blankets, I realize it has at some point become absolutely freezing.
I open my mouth to yell out for you to let me out of my crib, only to notice that the side is already down. A few moments later, the smell of pancakes reaches my nose.
My legs are still a little unsteady as I stand up, and a huge yawn takes the opportunity to pounce as I wait for them to wake up some more before climbing out. I grab my glasses from the cribside table, then head over to my dresser. I know you like to dress me, but I'm pretty sure I'm going to freeze to death if I have to wait for you to finish cooking, so I pull on a sweater and a pair of jeans and hope you'll forgive me this once.
My broken computer is still sitting on the table, the very sight of it enough to bring my mood down a notch, and then a few more as I remember what day it is. I glance towards the kitchen, as if I can see through the walls to the kitchen, then scurry over to the bookshelf.
A few minutes later, I wander into the kitchen, eyes suddenly brightening when they fall across the refrigerator. I bounce across the room, stopping long enough to smell the roses I notice waiting on the table, to get out the bar of chocolate my sister left me the other day, on the condition that I promise not to eat until today. I had my fingers crossed, but you took her side anyway.
I've already broken off a piece and have it halfway to my mouth by the time you say, "These are chocolate chip pancakes, you know."
"So?" I shrug, taking a little nibble, to make the piece last as long as possible. "You can never have too much chocolate."
You abandon the pancakes for a moment, crossing over to give me a good morning kiss on the tip of the nose, which you immediately decide to tell me is cold, as if I hadn't noticed.
"That's because it's Antarctica in here," I pout.
"They're supposed to be by tomorrow to fix it," you assure me. "Happy Valentine's Day, baby."
"Happy Valentine's Day." I blush down at the floor. "Thank you for the flowers."
You start to tell me "You're welcome," but stop when I take your hand and start to tug you towards the living room. You follow patiently, looking a little confused when I stop at the table and take the spatula out of your hands, and shove a book into them.
Our book, as a matter of fact. You still look confused, so I say, "Open it!", and try to look pleased when you do.
"To the best Daddy in the world," you read out loud.
"I autographed it," I explain. "For when it becomes a big hit! Of course, I don't know if you'll be able to get the other author to sign it, too, but it's worth a try." I giggle.
Maybe we should have gotten them to market the book as some sort of a romance thing, I muse, inspired by the day. Not that it would probably make any difference, since I don't think they've really been advertising it at all. I know my sister bought a copy, but I'm pretty sure she's the only one.
"Thank you, sweetie," you say, kissing the top of my head and setting the book down on the table, open. The heart I drew looks even more lopsided now, but, hey, I never claimed I was an artist.
"I was going to write you a story," I say after a moment. "I had it planned out, kinda, but..." You follow my gaze over to the computer.
"It's all right," you tell me. "It's not your fault."
"I know," I shrug, staring down at the floor. "I just..."
"We've been through this before," you stop me. "And it's not like you forgot this time. It's okay."
I smile up at you, letting myself believe your words as you lead me back into the kitchen. At least until you tell me that I'll ruin my appetite by eating more of my chocolate, because I -know- that can't possibly be true. I'm sure I would have only been hungry enough for one small-ish pancake even if I hadn't had any chocolate.
You seem less convinced, but you gracefully decide to let it go, only mentioning it one more time before you take me back to the nursery and sitting me on the changing table.
It's my turn to be confused when you pull out a baby wipe before you've even unbuttoned my jeans. You smile at my bewildered expression, gently take my hand and turn it so that I can see the chocolate stains on it.
"How'd that happen?" I giggle.
You shrug. "I thought maybe you'd tell me, but I guess it'll just have to stay a mystery." I nod. "I don't suppose you can tell me how the ones on your sweater got there, either, huh?"
I stick out my tongue, sure you're joking, until I actually look down at my arm, at which point I quickly try to hide both my tongue and my arm. "Erm... No," I smile angelically.
"That's what I thought," you nod sagely. "Well, how about what happened in your diaper?"
I blush, and squirm a little, your fingers cold against my skin as you pull out the back of my jeans and my diaper, even though you obviously don't have to, since you finish the question almost before you even start - you just know I think it's embarrassing to get checked like that. "Dunno."
"Hmm, that's too bad." You let my clothes snap back into place, then start to remove them. "I was going to ask you if you needed to use the potty in a minute, too."
"You were not," I stick out my tongue, and this time, I'm right. It's been quite a while since you've asked that with any intention of actually letting me do it, since you usually wait until you know it's too late; I can't even remember what I did that had lost me that privilege.
"Probably not," you admit, setting my jeans on the edge of the changing table before softly pushing my shoulders downwards, towards the surface of the table. I comply, earning a quick tickle.
"I love you, Daddy," I say, as soon as I can speak through the giggles.
"I love you, too, baby girl."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
I stand up slowly, holding my breath. You've had enough time to get to sleep by now, hopefully. I feel a little bad about pretending to fall asleep on your lap on the couch, but mostly I'm just glad you seemed to buy it. Getting through the diaper change while pretending to be asleep wasn't particularly easy. I'm probably lucky you changed me into my Valentine's Day present - the footed sleeper with little hearts all over it - after we got home from dinner.
If I weren't so grateful for that, I might be suspicious about the heater acting up again, and you using it as an excuse to put me in my jammies so early. Though they are pretty comfy, so I guess I can't really complain about that. Too much.
The latch on the right side of the crib has been acting up lately. You keep saying you'll fix it, but, luckily, you haven't gotten around to it yet. If I push it just the right way, and make sure to keep that side of the wall from crashing down all lop-sided, I can just get to the latch on the other side. It's not the easiest thing in the world, though I imagine that's at least partly because I usually find the most difficult way possible to do anything, but I can pull it off, after a try or two, if I really want - or need, in this case - to get out of the crib by myself.
The door of the nursery is open just a crack, enough so that it doesn't look like there's any light coming from the hallway beyond. I push the door open slowly just in case, however, since I've been fooled by that before. This time it -is- dark, with just enough light coming from my nightlight to illuminate the path to my destination.
I close the door to the computer room ever so slowly, knowing it has the tendency to squeak at the worst possible moment, before flipping the light switch. Your laptop is still sitting on the desk, right where you left it.
I don't really remember the details of the story I had been planning on writing for you, and my stupid computer still won't start up to let me retrieve the file they're on. But that's okay. I've thought of another story, and if I can type fast enough, maybe I'll be able to finish it tonight, so that it'll only be day late. Maybe when you wake up, you'll find it waiting for you on your computer.
I glance up from the screen, still working on booting up. I thought I'd heard something moving in the house, but I guess it was just my imagination. I turn back to the computer, giggling softly at how silly I'm being, jumping at little nothings. It's just because it's the middle of the night, I tell myself. I have the light on, so I don't have any shadows to jump at, so I moved on to sounds. That's all.
I create a new text file, and, after a moment to re-gather all my thoughts and try to form them into a shape somewhat resembling a story, I begin to write.