Chapter 8:
Babysitting
I feed Beth another spoonful of the mashed apples, and she feeds her plush toy another spoonful of the empty air she scooped up from her play bowl. There is an entire play set on the play table. A tea pot, tea cups, saucers, little spoons, napkins, a play plate with cookies made from paper, ones that Beth painted herself so that she won’t try to eat them.
They look like unicorn’s imagination. I know because unicorns are a thing on Pegasus 780 and their imagination is widely researched. They can paint, and...
“Uncle Tine here!” Beth demands, as she brings the empty spoon to my lips. I open my mouth obediently, and make eating sounds, much to her delight.
“Hm, fine porridge,” I comment. That makes her scrunch up her nose.
“Cake!” She exclaims, and I smile bashfully.
“Sorry. It was so good, that I didn’t know what it was,” I tell her. She eyes me with narrowed eyes for a while, then shrugs, and decides that she should feed me another spoonful, instead of being angry at me.
That is the thing about children. They are so forgiving. When I adopt, I will make sure that my child knows that I love them to bits. I just need to find someone to join me on the child raising journey.
It is not that I can’t afford to have a child. I can. Happiness potions sell very well, after all, and are always in demand. Even that bittersweet potion sold for a pretty penny.
But a child needs two parents. Then again, even one parent is better than none. My dating life is in a slump. I can speak with people and make friendships, but when I try to go for something more, I just... Anyway, the little acorn is showing me the bowl now.
“No more cake?” I ask, faking disappointment in my voice.
“More, kitchen,” she tells me, and I finally realize why the air was cake. I chuckle at that.
“I got you the apples, and your mother made them into a purée for you. Don’t you like them?” I hit her with my best puppy dog eyes, and she chews on her bottom lip. I can’t resist, I snap a picture of her. Not only that, but I send it to Daniel without really thinking about it. She ends up pouting at me.
“Picture tax,” she demands. There is this thing we have, called picture tax. She doesn’t like it, when people take pictures of her. I think she knows that she is thought of as adorable, and, as all children, she thinks that she is a grown up, instead. I rummage in my pocket, and take out a single fake chocolate coin. Her eyes brighten up at that.
I hold up the coin to her nose, and look her straight in the eyes. In the most serious tone I can muster, I say:
“Mama can’t know,” then I unwrap the coin, so she can eat the chocolate, and hand it over. As she bites half of the coin off, and closes her eyes, I snap another picture of her. My flash is not turned on, and neither is the sound. I am fairly certain that I can get away with it. Her eyes snap open, just as I am placing the phone down.
“Picture tax,” she yells, hitting her tail on the floor.
“Oh, come on. Two for one?” I try to negotiate. It doesn’t even cross my mind to try and lie to her. What if she never trusts me again? I am a terrible liar, my mother made me know that much, at least.
“Three tax!” She yells, outraged that I even attempted to negotiate.
“One picture, plus another picture, makes two coins,” I tell her. She holds up three fingers, showing me that she can count to three just fine and that my arguments are invalid.
I sigh, and take out two more coins. She giggles, and claps her hands together. I have to remember to hide the wrappers in my jacket. It won’t be a lie, if I simply abstain from mentioning to Norah that I have given her baby chocolate. I mean, Beth can eat chocolate just fine. She is past the age, where it is dangerous.
She is just about to eat the last coin, when she sizes me up. Furthermore, she looks at the phone, which lays by my tail. Exhaling loudly, she breaks the coin in half. She trusts one half of the coin to my lips, and rises an eyebrow.
“Why, thank you, little acorn,” I say, and eat my peace offering. She gobbles up her half of the coin, and looks at my phone with excitement.
“If you want a picture of you to be taken, then I won’t pay the tax,” I say, and she stomps her tail.
“Choco!” She yells, but I am a veteran of such outbursts.
“You finish your apples, and I will show you something special,” I tell her. She tilts her head to the side, and looks at me, searching for whatever it is that I will show her. I hold out Noah’s picture, and wave it under her nose. Her fingers try to snap around the paper, but I pull it out of reach. “Apples first, super special picture later.”
“Super special?” She asks, her eyes following the paper as I wave it around.
“Super-duper special,” I assure her, and she giggles. Soon, I am feeding her the rest of her apple mush, and she is eating without complaints. Heck, I think she likes the apples, but doesn’t want to admit it, seeing as kids seem to hold chocolate on a pedestal. When the bowl is empty, I open up the picture, and point at the blue moon, with its orange limbs and clothes.
She gapes at it, and reaches out, to lay a finger on the frown of the moon.
“Sad?” She asks, and I nod.
“Sort of. But it will be happy, one day,” I say, and she nods. With her fingers, she makes a smiley face on the moon, and we are both reduced to giggles.
Chapter 8:
Babysitting
I feed Beth another spoonful of the mashed apples, and she feeds her plush toy another spoonful of the empty air she scooped up from her play bowl. There is an entire play set on the play table. A tea pot, tea cups, saucers, little spoons, napkins, a play plate with cookies made from paper, ones that Beth painted herself so that she won’t try to eat them.
They look like unicorn’s imagination. I know because unicorns are a thing on Pegasus 780 and their imagination is widely researched. They can paint, and...
“Uncle Tine here!” Beth demands, as she brings the empty spoon to my lips. I open my mouth obediently, and make eating sounds, much to her delight.
“Hm, fine porridge,” I comment. That makes her scrunch up her nose.
“Cake!” She exclaims, and I smile bashfully.
“Sorry. It was so good, that I didn’t know what it was,” I tell her. She eyes me with narrowed eyes for a while, then shrugs, and decides that she should feed me another spoonful, instead of being angry at me.
That is the thing about children. They are so forgiving. When I adopt, I will make sure that my child knows that I love them to bits. I just need to find someone to join me on the child raising journey.
It is not that I can’t afford to have a child. I can. Happiness potions sell very well, after all, and are always in demand. Even that bittersweet potion sold for a pretty penny.
But a child needs two parents. Then again, even one parent is better than none. My dating life is in a slump. I can speak with people and make friendships, but when I try to go for something more, I just... Anyway, the little acorn is showing me the bowl now.
“No more cake?” I ask, faking disappointment in my voice.
“More, kitchen,” she tells me, and I finally realize why the air was cake. I chuckle at that.
“I got you the apples, and your mother made them into a purée for you. Don’t you like them?” I hit her with my best puppy dog eyes, and she chews on her bottom lip. I can’t resist, I snap a picture of her. Not only that, but I send it to Daniel without really thinking about it. She ends up pouting at me.
“Picture tax,” she demands. There is this thing we have, called picture tax. She doesn’t like it, when people take pictures of her. I think she knows that she is thought of as adorable, and, as all children, she thinks that she is a grown up, instead. I rummage in my pocket, and take out a single fake chocolate coin. Her eyes brighten up at that.
I hold up the coin to her nose, and look her straight in the eyes. In the most serious tone I can muster, I say:
“Mama can’t know,” then I unwrap the coin, so she can eat the chocolate, and hand it over. As she bites half of the coin off, and closes her eyes, I snap another picture of her. My flash is not turned on, and neither is the sound. I am fairly certain that I can get away with it. Her eyes snap open, just as I am placing the phone down.
“Picture tax,” she yells, hitting her tail on the floor.
“Oh, come on. Two for one?” I try to negotiate. It doesn’t even cross my mind to try and lie to her. What if she never trusts me again? I am a terrible liar, my mother made me know that much, at least.
“Three tax!” She yells, outraged that I even attempted to negotiate.
“One picture, plus another picture, makes two coins,” I tell her. She holds up three fingers, showing me that she can count to three just fine and that my arguments are invalid.
I sigh, and take out two more coins. She giggles, and claps her hands together. I have to remember to hide the wrappers in my jacket. It won’t be a lie, if I simply abstain from mentioning to Norah that I have given her baby chocolate. I mean, Beth can eat chocolate just fine. She is past the age, where it is dangerous.
She is just about to eat the last coin, when she sizes me up. Furthermore, she looks at the phone, which lays by my tail. Exhaling loudly, she breaks the coin in half. She trusts one half of the coin to my lips, and rises an eyebrow.
“Why, thank you, little acorn,” I say, and eat my peace offering. She gobbles up her half of the coin, and looks at my phone with excitement.
“If you want a picture of you to be taken, then I won’t pay the tax,” I say, and she stomps her tail.
“Choco!” She yells, but I am a veteran of such outbursts.
“You finish your apples, and I will show you something special,” I tell her. She tilts her head to the side, and looks at me, searching for whatever it is that I will show her. I hold out Noah’s picture, and wave it under her nose. Her fingers try to snap around the paper, but I pull it out of reach. “Apples first, super special picture later.”
“Super special?” She asks, her eyes following the paper as I wave it around.
“Super-duper special,” I assure her, and she giggles. Soon, I am feeding her the rest of her apple mush, and she is eating without complaints. Heck, I think she likes the apples, but doesn’t want to admit it, seeing as kids seem to hold chocolate on a pedestal. When the bowl is empty, I open up the picture, and point at the blue moon, with its orange limbs and clothes.
She gapes at it, and reaches out, to lay a finger on the frown of the moon.
“Sad?” She asks, and I nod.
“Sort of. But it will be happy, one day,” I say, and she nods. With her fingers, she makes a smiley face on the moon, and we are both reduced to giggles.
