Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74330 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74330 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
“Daddy sleeps loud,” Harlow says, making her sister laugh.
“Pap does too!” Hayden says, and another fit of giggles ensues.
Lifting my arms, I tickle their sides as they squirm. “What are you two monsters doing talking about me while I sleep?”
“You sleep loud!” They laugh hysterically as I move to my knees and tickle them both. Their backs are on the bed, and their little bodies squirm from my tickle monster hands.
“You unleashed the tickle monster.” I make my voice deeper. Bending down, I blow a raspberry on Hayden’s belly where her shirt has ridden up and then the same to Harlow on hers.
“Mercy!” Harlow yells.
“I have to pee!” Hayden squeals.
That’s all it takes for me to stop. I’m not about to wash the sheets when I just did it earlier this week. “Go potty,” I tell them, giving them a break from the tickle monster.
“I’m going to Daddy’s bathroom!” Hayden slides off the bed and makes a mad dash for my room.
“Hurry, sissy, I gots to go too,” Harlow informs her sister.
“Go use yours,” I tell her.
“I wanna use yours,” she says, dancing around.
Finally, Hayden appears, and Harlow rushes past her like a hurricane. Hayden climbs on the bed, and I snuggle her close. I will never tire of snuggles from my girls. I’m already dreading the day they’re too cool to hug dear old dad. I know it’s coming, and I am in no way ready for it.
“Daddy, my belly’s angry,” Hayden tells me.
“Hmm, maybe we should feed it?” I suggest.
“Mine too!” Harlow runs and jumps on the bed, joining us.
“All right, so what are we eating today?” I ask them.
“Jitters!” they both cheer, and I can’t help but laugh.
“Jitters it is. Go brush your teeth, and I’ll grab you some clothes.”
“No, we want to pick,” they say.
“Okay. You can pick.” It’s hard to tell what they’re going to be wearing today. However, over the last four years, I’ve learned to pick and choose my battles. “Go get ready. Daddy’s going to grab a shower. Do not go downstairs without me.” I point at them, reminding them of the rules. I have to keep them close.
“We know,” they say dramatically.
I have a vision of them as teenagers rolling their eyes at me and amping up their already teenager-like attitudes. “Keep it up, and we’ll be eating here.”
“Nope!” they say and scramble off the bed and race down the hall to their room.
I rush through my shower, not wanting to leave the girls to their own devices for long. Pulling on some shorts and a Mason Creek Fire Department T-shirt, I go in search of the twins. I hear giggles coming from their room and stop just inside the doorway. There are clothes thrown all over the room in between their two twin beds. The house has three bedrooms, but they insist on sharing a room. So the third bedroom is their playroom.
“What’s going on in here?” I place my hands on my hips and try to be stern and not let my smile pull at my lips.
“Daddy, we don’t have nuffing to wear,” Harlow says theatrically.
Lord help me. “Well, I guess that means no Jitters. You can’t go in your pjs.”
“No!” they whine.
“Choose, girls, and when we get home, you’re cleaning your room. What have I told you about throwing your clean clothes all around your room?”
“Sorry, Daddy.” Harlow is the first to apologize, followed quickly by her sister.
“Get dressed. I’m going to grab what we need for your hair.” I walk out of the room and head for their bathroom, grabbing what I need to tame their dark curls. I’m still in a constant state of learning, and I can braid but not French braid. The girls keep asking me to learn, and I’ve watched a few YouTube videos, but every time I try, it turns out looking… well, not like it does at the end of the video.
When I make it back to their room, they’re both dressed in blue jean shorts and tank tops. The clothes actually match, which is a blessing. They’ve been known to want to wear their princess play dresses, and I’m the pushover who lets them. Mom tells me that I spoil them, but I’m a man. What do I know about four-year-old girls and what’s right in fashion for them?
Thirty minutes and a half a bottle of detangler later, their dark curls are pulled into pretty decent-looking ponytails, if I do say so myself, and we’re loading up in the truck heading to Java Jitters for what’s sure to be a sugary breakfast. It’s not something I do all the time, knowing it’s not the most nutritional, but Java Jitters has, well, the best java, and I could use a cup or four today.
The drive to Java Jitters is short. Just enough time for the girls to sing along to one song on the radio. After parking my truck on the street, I turn to face them. “You can get out of your seats, but don’t open the doors. I’ll come around to get you.” About a year ago, they decided they were big girls and were going to open their own door. They chose the door closest to the street. Luckily I was just at the back of the truck and made it to them in time, but it gave me nightmares for weeks that something was going to happen to them. Not the first time in the last three years that I’ve praised the fact that Mason Creek is a small town and not a busy city. My girls climbing out of the truck onto a busy street could have turned out much worse. I’m aware I’m overprotective, but I will make no apologies for it.