Chapter 33
Jonas
Bash is a pretty terrible pancake batter mixer.
And I love it.
He’s stripped down to his diaper and has flour all over his chest and his solid toddler belly. Milk and egg on his arm. A clump of all of it in his hair.
The bowl slides across the countertop while he stands on a chair and stirs, the spoon having more control over him than he has over the spoon.
“You need any help?” I ask him.
“I do it.”
Bash isn’t the only thing coated in flour. The counter, floor, chair, and window are too.
We had an incident with the measuring cup. And the flour container.
And me overestimating either his ability or his will to get the first cup into the mixing bowl.
“You’re doing great,” I tell him. “These are gonna be the best pancakes the world has ever seen.”
He grins at me, flinging a glob of half-mixed batter up under the cabinet and making the light there go a little dimmer.
Wonder how fast I can find a housecleaner for Emma. I cleaned in here the other day, but my skills might not stand up to toddlers cooking.
And then I think about Bash in my house, making a mess of my kitchen, Emma and her chickens wandering around too, and my heart skips a beat.
I have a house near Razzle Dazzle headquarters in Albany, close to what was once Hayes’s primary residence and a short helicopter ride to our parents’ estate.
One in Los Angeles merely for convenience, since I’m there often enough for premieres and voicework and the occasional film.
One in New York City for the same reason.
But my home has always been an estate on a hundred acres in southeastern New Hampshire, near where most of the filming for Razzle Dazzle films is done.
I could see Emma and Bash there.
Not because I want them to move. Not because I’m changing my mind about stepping away from acting.
But because they’ve welcomed me into their home.
I want to share what’s been mine with them too.
Bonus—the security is airtight.
“I took now,” Bash says.
Took. Took. Cook .
I glance down to where he has the pancake mixture still goopy, the bowl resting in a soupy white slurry that’ll probably turn into glue before long.
But it’s close to ready for cooking.
“Can I give it a stir?” I ask him.
“No.”
I stifle a grin. “Okay, then. What’s next, little chef?”
“I took now,” he repeats.
“Does your mama let you cook on the stove?”
“Suit up, Bash,” Emma calls from the powder room down the hall where she’s giving the chicken a bath in the sink.
Bash slides off the chair and runs to a cabinet across the kitchen, trailing flour and pancake goop behind him.
I give half a thought to stirring the batter quickly while he has his back turned, but then remember I watched him eat canned green beans buried in mashed potatoes and honey for lunch before the baby shower yesterday and decide he’s not going to care if his pancakes are lumpy.
Also, I’ve been inhaling parenting handbooks, and at least three of them said kids should be free to explore the world and make safe mistakes.
I assume eating lumpy pancakes falls into that category.
Even if I have no idea if the parenting books I’ve been reading are the right ones.
Bash nearly crawls into the cabinet, and eventually emerges with an apron, a chef’s hat, and two massive oven mitts. “Tie me up, toach!” he shouts.
“Zen and Theo shouldn’t be alone with him,” Emma says on a sigh down the hall.
I get Bash’s over-large apron tied around his waist. He plops the big white chef’s hat on his own head, and then slips his arms into the oven mitts, which go all the way over his elbows.
“Up?” he says to me, lifting his arms at the chair.
“You got it, chef.” His body is so little in some ways, but so solid and sturdy in others. He’s warm. Messy.
Perfect.
“No, dare ,” he says, pointing to the stove. “I took dare .”
“Oh, yes, we cook over there,” I agree. “Emma? Does he get to stand at the stove?”
She strides into the kitchen with the chicken wrapped in a towel. “Yes. Here. Yolko Ono likes swaddle cuddles after bath. I’ve got him.”
She doesn’t blink at the mess.
Not much, anyway.
There’s maybe a little bit of an eye twitch.
“I’m on clean-up patrol,” I tell her.
“ I tean up,” Bash retorts.
“Can I help?”
He studies me while Emma wraps one arm around his belly, holding him while she scoots his chair over in front of the stove. “We wi see.”
We will see .
Gonna go out on a limb and guess that means I talk big but you’ll do all of the work .
It’s what I likely would’ve meant at almost two.
Yolko Ono lifts her head and looks at me. She’s purring—again, who knew chickens could purr? —but behind her fluffy head feathers, I can almost see her eyes. I’m nearly certain she’s silently calculating how much she likes being swaddle-cuddled versus how much she hates being swaddle-cuddled by me.
I eye her right back, silently vowing to win her over too. “You and I can get along great if we agree to not scare each other first thing in the morning,” I tell her.
She purrs again, then clucks dismissively.
Emma shoots me a stifled smile, amusement dancing in her big brown eyes. “She’ll forgive you. Eventually.”
“I’ll forgive her eventually too.”
Emma laughs.
“Mama, pantake ,” Bash says.
“Patience. We have to wait for the griddle to heat up. Can Mama test your batter?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Thank you. Oh, look at this! You did such a good job. These will be delicious. I can tell. Did you tell Jonas thank you for helping you?”
“I do it bysef.”
“You did most of it yourself, but you had help, didn’t you?”
Bash peers around her and grins at me.
I grin back, but mine’s a little more misty-eyed.
Didn’t expect to find so much happiness in a disaster of a kitchen, holding a chicken and smiling at a little boy while also sneaking glances at his mama’s ass, but here I am.
Happy.
Content.
And hoping it can last.
“Should we go for a hike today after breakfast?” Emma says to Bash. “With Jonas too? And have a picnic by the secret lake?”
“Secwet wake!” he yells. “Pantakes!”
“Pancakes at home. Then we’ll pack up for a hike.” She glances back at me again. “If you’re up for it.”
Yep, that’s my heart about to burst out of my chest. “Always.”
Yolko Ono clucks softly again.
I pet her head.
She doesn’t try to bite my finger off.
Actually, she purrs again.
This version of my life?
I like it. And I sincerely hope it can last.