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C.C was aware of how the scene would unfold the moment she saw the familiar grin in her daughter’s face.
Jil, please, tell me you didn’t.
She was aware there were no optimistic outcomes for it — for her little giggles were too mischievous, and her little hands were too eager when she reached for her small orange bowl. But still, she really, really dared to hope her daughter wouldn’t do that exact 20 minutes before they had to leave for the Sheffield’s — for Jonah’s and Eve’s birthday.
Now, she stands with her hands on her hips, looking at her little girl who has mashed bananas… everywhere. Hair, cheeks, neck and her beautiful yellow dress.
Oh God, not the hair! I’ll have to shower her again.
The little girl keeps giggling, taking the pieces of banana out of the small bowl and putting it in her mouth with her little hands; smiling at her momma’s funny expression.
(You see, in an isolated corner of her mind, C.C dares to replay her own childhood, as often happens since she first got her little miracle in her arms. She recalls the “nanny rotation” that happened almost yearly — how none would last unless they were old and mean — and she recalls her mother’s reluctance in ever being responsible for her — her unwillingness to offer her warmth and care.
It would be comical if it didn’t leave a bad taste in her mouth, truly : having a child, a piece of her alive and so full of energy around, makes every aspect of those memories unbearable. Unacceptable.
For herself, this sort of behavior — playing with food and making such a mess — would’ve been punished in some way, if only by making her eat with the help in another room. For her daughter, this sort of behavior makes her heart beat a little softer; her throat scratches with a deep chuckle as she leans forward with a tiny cloth in her hands.)
“Sweetheart, look at you,” C.C exclaims as she cleans her daughter's cheek and forehead, smiling at the squeal the infant lets out. “Your father will regret ever letting you think every meal should end in a food war, I swear.”
Jillian closes her hands in closed fists, putting them down at once, right on top of what’s left of her snack. She laughs. Loudly.
And it spills.
Some more onto herself. Some onto the high-chair's table. Some onto her mommy’s dress and chin.
The little girl looks up at her mother’s face, her tiny index finger going to her lower lip. “Uhh… sowwy? ”
C.C can’t contain herself — she bursts into laughter. Hoarse laughter. Genuine laughter. “It’s alright, my love.” She holds her belly, not once paying any mind to the small pieces of banana stuck to her fancy dress. She doesn't even notice her husband coming down the stairs, fixing his tie; stopping by the door frame, leaning into it when he catches a glimpse of her.
And Jillian — who is having a fit of her own.
They just stay there laughing for what feels like a good five minutes — the only thing that brings them to a stop is Niles ; walking behind his wife and placing his hand on her waist, startling her for a moment before she relaxes, molding herself to his frame as they both watch their daughter in the high-chair.
“Care to explain what happened here, ladies ?” He says, narrowing his eyes at Jill.
“Dada!”
“I turn my back for one second and you two play food fight? Without me?” He pouts, feigning offense. “I feel betrayed !”
“Bee-tay…” The infant echoes, distracting herself with the new words.
“She asked for a snack. I went to get her ladybug spoon, and when I turned back to her, there was banana everywhere. Which is your fault, by the way.”
Niles chuckles, burying his nose on his wife’s neck for a moment. “How's it my fault if I was upstairs?”
“You taught her how to play food fight. You always teach her bad things.”
“You only say that because she said Dada first.” His voice is muffled. He hasn't dared to move from where he lies on her shoulder. “You smell good .”
She shakes her head, but can't help the small bolt of energy that travels down her spine when he kisses her bare skin. “Niles .” It's a warning —or, at least, meant to be one.
“We have less than five minutes to get there.”
“They live across the street.”
“You don't like being late.”
“I think they’ll understand it if it's only for a few minutes.” She says just as she catches sight of Jillian scratching her head. With a hand full of more banana. “Maybe half an hour.”
And when they finally put the bowl away from the little girl, C.C is the one to scoop her into her arms to take her to the bathroom, while Niles cleans up the mess left in the kitchen.
To save some time, C.C — now much more confident with showers than she had been 9 months ago — hops into the bath with her daughter. She washes her hair with that lavender shampoo Jill seems to love, and she entertains the girl when she asks her to wash her bath duckie’s nonexistent feathers. (She kisses her forehead when she leans forward to hold onto her neck, and she relishes the moment skin-to-skin with her child, sighing with the now known relief of being connected to someone else’s mere cells and fiber.)
They take, in the end, another ten minutes to get dressed up and ready again.
Niles awaits for his girls downstairs, and he proudly takes Jillian in his arms when she makes grabby hands at him — repeating ‘Dada’ an unholy amount of times. C.C stands beside him, and only after a kiss on the cheek she turns to close the doors.