Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Oh, except swap murders for other less bloody traumatic experiences.
I mean…I assume that’s why I’m in the hospital and why I didn’t already know the reason for the dress I’m stuffed into.
“Princess Belle is my favorite!” exclaims Bella cuddling up to me closer. “She have all da books! I wuv books. My daddy wuvs books too! Alllllllll da books. Even what Babu say kissy books!”
“Uh-huh…” Her fingertips gently dive back into my curls, clearly fascinated with their spring. “And who is Babu?”
“She Babu!” Small giggles are accompanied by a theatrical headshake. “You so silly!”
Yup.
That’s a kid for ya.
Adorably clueless.
“What yo real name?” Bella curiously asks at the same time she flops her face into the palm of her other hand. “You have a baby in you tummy?” She stops stroking to give my stomach a small pat. “Right here?”
And this is also a kid for ya.
Accidentally savage.
“First,” turning on my fine-tuned nanny voice is followed by me removing her hand from my body and gently placing it back on hers, “we keep our hands and feet to ourselves unless we’ve asked to share someone’s space.”
Bella’s light, barely there eyebrows launch to the sky. “That include Daddy and Babu and Dedu?!”
Getting major grandparents vibes from those names.
Will confirm with my employer when he walks in.
Assuming that’s whose kid this is.
I don’t recall having a boyfriend – I’ll need to look for notes in my phone about this – but I do know, I typically don’t date men with kids.
It never fails to get too messy.
Too complicated.
Too involved.
Not to mention it gets really hard when you like hanging out with the kid more than the parent because they get why eating raw peppermint cookie dough during the baking process is fundamental versus “a health hazard”.
Can we say…yawn?
“Personal space rules do include them.” The softness in my tone keeps her calm as well as engaged. “Even Daddy’s and Mommy’s and Babu’s and Dedu’s and Scooby Do’s need space to call their own. And your space,” the finger from the opposite hand wags itself in her direction, “is your space to share with who you want to share it with. And if you don’t want to share it, they need to keep their hands and their feet to themselves.”
She eagerly nods at the information before asking, “Belle, can I share yo’ space with you?”
“Sure! I would like that!”
Her excitement escapes in a high-pitched squeak and is followed by her fingers resuming their combing motion to my hair.
“Next,” I precede with a lesson about unintentional body critiquing, “I do not have a baby in my tummy. People come in all shapes and sizes. Some people are really, really tall-”
“Like Daddy,” Bella insists while nodding her comprehension.
“Some people are really, really short. Some people are rounder in the tummy and chest like me and some people are very tiny in those areas not like me.”
Plus-size would be what adults call it but in all my years of working with kids that has never rolled over well.
Come to think about it.
It doesn’t for most grownups either.
No one can seem to decide what “qualifies you” to use that label.
And then that brings up a different discussion which is what makes an individual “qualified” to judge someone else’s frame or how they see themselves? Just because a person is a certain size, they may not consider themselves “plus” anything. Also, depending on where they’re from, they could be the fucking runt of their world, which calls them petite.
Different times, different places, different views.
It takes a lot of practice learning to be objective as opposed to critical.
It’s why starting the habit with children is a necessity not a luxury.
“Last,” my explanation swings towards its ending, “my real is name Joey.”
“Joey,” Bella sings and pulls out what looks like a sprinkle from my hair. “Joey. Joey. Joey. I like Joey!”
A wide mouth grin graces my face. “I like it too!”
One thousand percent more than my full name, that’s for sure.
Our conversation unexpectedly gets interrupted by the beast of a man who has to be her father.
Their matching light complexions, bright blond hair, and even pale blue eyes are enough to make an educated guess; however, it’s seeing his demeanor go from glum to giddy in point two seconds that really gives me that answer.
She’s his whole world.
I’ve seen that look a million times on parent’s faces.
Usually more moms than dads.
Is that why I took this gig?
To mix shit up?
Is that what I’ll find out when I look at the notes in my phone?
“Annabella,” his deep voice struggles not to rumble causing my thighs to push anxiously together, “what on earth are you doing up there?!”
“I not like Annabella! Only Bella! And Princess!”
He twitches the tiniest glare and caves to her shrieked outraged. “Bella…tell Daddy why you’re…up on the…” the whirling of his hand around is comical, “thing…with the….” it floppily waves, “her.”