Chapter 13
Crew
A lot of people compare really great times to Christmas morning. As in, “It was like Christmas morning,” or “It was better than Christmas morning.” As if Christmas morning is the epitome of all things wonderful.
And yeah, as a kid, Christmas morning, with Santa and everything was sick. Obviously.
But as I sit in our home in Chicago on Christmas morning, surrounded by so many of the people I love, I realize that I’m lucky that pretty much every day of my life now feels like Christmas morning.
It’s not unusual for Michael to be in the kitchen with his mother and Dani’s mom while my mom and dad sit at the table in the dining room with Michael’s dad talking about books, politics, hockey, and a million other topics.
“I can’t believe this video of you singing My Favorite Things with the nuns in the van went viral,” my mom calls, holding up her phone.
I grin. “Why not? That is a fantastic video.” It’s got nearly three million views now.
The song seemed appropriate since it’s from The Sound Of Music and Maria was, after all, a nun. Tons of people in the comments got it and I’m proud of my fans for that. I’m also getting a lot of love for my singing voice which I appreciate.
“I can’t believe you know all the words to that song,” my dad says.
I laugh. “I’m full of surprises.”
“That’s one of my favorite things,” Dani says, giving me a flirty little smile as she comes from the kitchen into the dining room with a coffee pot to refill all the mugs.
I give her a wink and she blushes even from across the room.
Dani keeps moving between the kitchen, the dining room and the basement where her dad is playing video games with Wade and Erika.
Okay, that’s something different. Wade isn’t usually at our house and I’ll admit even I was a little wary about Wade being the one in charge of entertaining Dani’s dad. But judging by the whoops and yells and laughter coming up the stairs, I’d say it’s going pretty well.
Nathan is across from me on the couch holding Oliver, who is sleeping peacefully against his shoulder.
Nathan is reading something on his phone, but I know that he’s actually listening to all the commotion around him because he has that goofy half smile on his face that has become more and more common over the years.
I’m on Isabel duty. That’s my usual gig early in the day when our little girl is full of energy and ready to go. We’ve already been outside in the snow and now we’re on the living room floor playing with her new blocks.
At least we were before she found the Scotch tape roll that someone accidentally left near the television after our gift wrapping marathon.
“Give Daddy the tape Izzy,” I tell her, holding out my hand.
I used to think that I wasn’t going to have to be any kind of disciplinarian or give the kids any rules. After all, they have three other parents and two other fathers who are kind of big on rules and being responsible.
But it has only taken me two years with Isabel to realize that giving your kids rules isn’t about being no fun or a hard ass. It’s about keeping them safe and helping them not be assholes.
Even gorgeous little girls who look like their mother and who are brilliant and funny and the light of my life can be little assholes sometimes.
Like when they try to stick tape onto everything they can reach, including the front of the television set, the TV remote, and their little brother’s pacifier.
I’ve peeled tape off of all of those things so far and I’m afraid that I might’ve missed something.
“No,” she tells me clearly. She says it cheerfully, but without hesitation.
‘No’ was one of the very first words she learned.
Considering how sweet and submissive her mama is, we all thought that was pretty funny.
It’s not as funny now.
“Then give Papa the Scotch tape,” I suggest.
For a while we had gone by Daddy One, Daddy Two, and Daddy Three but over time it shifted and now I’m Daddy, Michael is Dad, and Nathan is Papa.
“No,” Isabel tells me again, tearing off a piece of tape and sticking it on the cover of one of Dani’s novels on the end table.
I sigh and carefully remove the piece.
“Stop!” Isabel tells me.
“You can’t put tape on everything,” I tell her.
“Yes.“ She tears off another piece of tape and puts it back on the book.
“Tape doesn’t go on books,” I tell her, peeling it off again. “It goes on presents.”
She points at the book. “Present for Mama.” Then she tears off another piece of tape and sticks it on the book.
I could take the book away, of course, but there are four other books on the table under this one.
And that’s not the point.
“Isabel, you need to listen,” I say, tapping my ear. “Give the tape to Daddy.”
“No.” Then she goes running toward the dining room.
“Just take it away from her,” Nathan says with the weary voice he often uses in these situations. He loves to be listened to and obeyed. Whether it’s around a board room table, on a conference call, in the bedroom, or with our kids.
You can guess where it happens the least.
“If I do, she’ll yell. And maybe cry,” I say, stating the obvious.
“I know.”
“I don’t like when she yells or cries.”
“We all know that. Including Isabel,” he says, lifting a brow.
We all try to leave each other alone when it comes to our various parenting styles.
We make decisions about the kids together, of course, but we each handle our kids a little differently while still following house rules and working toward our common goals of having kids who know they are loved, feel safe, are healthy, and can express themselves freely. While not being assholes.
Of course, there are times when we give one another “gentle reminders.” Like when Nathan wants to just throw all the toys with sharp edges away after he made the stupid decision to walk through the living room barefoot. Or when I would rather step on all of those sharp toys than make Isabel cry.
Not surprisingly, Michael is the level-headed one who pretty much never needs any “gentle reminders” at all.
I sigh. “Fine. I’ll go break my daughter’s heart and make her hate me.”
“And we wonder where she gets her dramatic flare from,” Nathan says, with an eye roll.
I grin despite the little volcano that’s about to erupt over some damn tape. Nobody wonders that at all. I can’t count the number of times people have told me Isabel takes after me.
Our family is fascinating and some sociologist should totally study us.
Michael is Isabel’s biological father, but she absolutely has lots of both me and Nathan in her.
She is incredibly smart, well beyond any other two-year-old any of us knows (so what if none of us really know any two-year-olds outside of her private preschool class) and loves books.
We attribute those things to Michael and Dani, of course.
But she’s got a I-can-not-believe-you-just-dared-to-say-that-to-me stare and a do-you-know-who-I-am attitude that I swear comes straight from Nathan Armstrong.
And yes, this girl loves all the drama of a great entrance and will definitely make her opinion heard if she is delighted…
or upset. Not unlike a certain hockey player she lives with.
I’m just saying that studying nature versus nurture in our house would be interesting.
I take a fortifying breath and face the dining room.
“She’s two,” Nathan says.
“I know. She’s getting faster and louder.”
He chuckles. “You’re scared of a toddler.”
“Damned right.”
“Just wait until she’s fifteen.”
I look at him with horror. “That’s not funny.”
“I’m not kidding.”
“We can’t talk about that. Not now. Not yet,” I say.
He’s still clearly amused, but asks, “I’m terrified of her teenage years as well, but why do you look so horrified?”
“Because I remember being a fifteen-year-old boy, Nathan. I realize that was a really long time ago for you, but trust me, teenage boys are nightmares.”
He looks down at Oliver. “Well, not all of them.”
Oliver is my pride and joy. I would lay down my life for either of my children and I’m an insufferable optimist most of the time.
But Oliver will also be a pain in the ass at times. Probably especially when he's a teenager.
And I say that as I guy who, in his mid-twenties, is still a pain in the ass at times.
“You know that he’s not perfect either,” I say.
“I know no such thing,” Nathan replies, stroking a hand over Oliver’s head.
“I will remind you of this day when you said my flesh and blood is perfect.”
“I said this boy who will have my guiding hand and influence, will be perfect,” Nathan corrects.
I laugh. See what I mean? Nature or nurture? It should be studied.
“Isabel says she wants Daddy.” Dani comes into the room carrying our little princess.
I look at Isabel. She grins at me as if I never dared say the word ‘no’ in her presence. She holds out the roll of tape. In her other hand is a cookie cutter shaped like an angel.
I take the tape roll and set it on a high shelf on the bookcase where she can’t reach it. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
She holds out her arms to me and I take her from Dani.
“What happened?” I ask my wife.
She grins and gives me a kiss on the cheek, then kisses Isabel’s head. “Michael,” she says simply.
She gives Nathan a little wave as she walks back into the kitchen.
We watch her go.
Then Nathan says, “Oliver won’t be a nightmare because of Michael.”
I look down at Isabel. She holds up the cookie cutter. “Angel,” she says. “Like me.”
I smile. “Just like you,” I agree. Then I look at Nathan. “It’s a good thing the three of us agreed to do this together. I’m not saying your guiding hand and influence aren’t great, but thank God for Michael, you know?”
Nathan nods, rubbing his hand up and down Oliver’s back. “Every day.”
I laugh, but then I say seriously, “I’m actually really glad to have you both. In all the things. All the time.”
He meets my gaze and nods his agreement. “Merry Christmas, Crew.”
“Mewwy Chwismas!” Isabel yells.
I hug my daughter with a grin, enjoying her yelling holiday greetings rather than yelling about me taking something away from her. This time.
“Merry Christmas, Nathan.”
My eyes drift to my wife, and to Michael.
Yep. Every day with them is like Christmas morning.
Cue the fucking credits.