The wind is shrieking past the windows, a rarity I would enjoy if my mind would let me. Instead, I tick items off my mental lists, reminding myself to eat soon, and piling said items in a clumsy heap on my bed. Flutters charge against my ribcage. There isn’t a good reason to be nervous, but the thought of a chaotic airport and so many wrong gates to wait by doesn’t comfort me. I stuff a backpack full of diapers, a certain brand of fish-shaped crackers, and more granola bars than Cadence and I should need.

My ears catch a faint tune coming from beneath the pile. I dig through and flip the sounding cell phone to my ear. The news gives me more to think about, more to anticipate, and more to be excited about.

The backpack finds its home beside a suitcase that bulges with things to protect us against the Minnesota cold. Stepping over a sleeping Cadence, I take a seat and try to recall any neglected duties. In my usual slouch and with an hour and a half left, I listen to the wind.  The moment is peaceful, but ended too soon when I remember to feed myself.

Cadence’s face droops in a pout; her hands clenching at my shirt in tight fists. The blueberry muffin bar I offer her is not helping. I pull the fists away and set her on the couch. Her teeth clench and her body flexes in shaky anger. The muffin bar is crumbling in her tightening hand. It reminds me of scene after Hollywood scene of muscled men demonstrating their strength by bending an iron bar or crushing a glass bottle with their fingertips. Her arm sweeps up over her head and grinds the bar into her hair.

I pry the bar from her fingers, holding back my amusement. It is a hard feat; Cadence’s red face and muffin hair are a ludicrous combination. My fingers brush the crumbs off her blond strands. The muffin lands in the garbage can, leading to screams of outrage. She runs to the kitchen and yanks at the child-gate in a frenzy. My forehead wrinkles as I watch her, wondering what in the blueberry muffin bar has happened to my sweet little girl.

Pressing the plastic measuring cup to Cadence’s eager fingers, I nudge it towards her lips.  She sings a “thank you” and tilts it into her mouth.  Half the syrup disappears from the cup before she yanks it away, coughing and squeezing her eyelids shut.  I could try to dump the rest down her throat, but that hasn’t ended well in the past.  Hoping that only half a dose will do the trick, I rinse the remaining medicine from the cup.   The following hours find my hopes in the garbage beside dozens of snot rags.  The skin by Cadence’s nostrils is thin and red from my administrations.  I am left to contemplate new ways to fool her into taking a full dose.

Dim lighting and tasteful architecture set a romantic atmosphere. Jake and I follow the hostess to the booth closest to the door. He whispers in my ear about how the restaurant seems like an Italian mob headquarters, a setting straight out of The Godfather. All it needs is burgundy carpet to polish the look.

He planned it just right: making time for my shower, hair manipulations, layers of different applications of makeup, the babysitter’s arrival, and a practical reservation time. Feeling confident, despite his secrecy over our destination, I kissed Cadence goodbye and tried to guess what special place was our destination.

Now, I glance over the booths and tables, muting out the dozens of voices echoing around decorative pieces. I spread the napkin over my lap and try to disguise the discomfort fancy restaurants cause me. I try in vain to recall etiquette guidelines from my high school Foods class. Jake whispers something about the different waters they bring out. I catch the name “Perrier” and one other that sounds familiar. The waiter asks for our drink orders, looking at me first; that I remember from etiquette, ladies first, etc. I ask specifically for tap water.

As the waiter leaves, Jake smirks and nudges me. “You’re not supposed to ask for tap water.” He shakes his head and glances away.

Crap! I always do something that labels me as the fast food junkie I really am. That telltale slip might be the reason the waiter looks at me a little differently, a bit more down the slope of his nose; it might be the reason our service morphs from excellent to mediocre. I might as well have spit shined the tablecloth with my napkin.  Tentatively, I eye the service for any change; it remains excellent, banishing my fears to that part of my brain I’ve labelled unfounded and somewhat idiotic worries.

Humming her approval, Cadence shoves more of the strawberry into her mouth.  Fleshy strings of the fruit cling to her face, staining her cheeks and dripping onto her shirt.  I glance down at her a moment later as she plucks a leaf from her teeth and presses it into my hands.  My fingers snap the remaining green top from the strawberry and leave Cadence to her own devices.

My knife hangs indefinitely above severed strawberry tops, interrupted by a particular bang.  I try to convince myself it isn’t what it sounds like; that door is always kept closed.  My knife clatters to the countertop with another sound that confirms my fears.

I jump over the baby gate and charge down the hallway.  The bathroom door gapes open.  “No, Cadence!  Come here.”  She slams the toilet seat down again, emitting that telltale bang I’d heard before.  My hook my hands beneath her arms and drag her away.  Her right hand is dripping wet, and so is the strawberry squished between her fingers.  She looks at me with guilty indulgence as her hand wanders back toward the toilet.

The department store bag twists with plastic crinkles around my fingers.  Concealed within is a rare find, a tasteful shirt reduced to a sweatshop price.  I will later discover my rare find does not fit quite right; it seems my body feels more comfortable in mediums now.  That knowledge will have to sink in for a few months, after the first stage of grief wears off: denial.

Mourning the loss of a toy turtle that she could stuff almost entirely into her mouth, Cadence twists in her restraints.  I pilot the stroller with my free hand in a less than straight path to the exit.  A store clerk and customer cut through the isle a short distance ahead.  A gray thatch of hair bounces as the short, Asian clerk passes, a black pirate patch disguising a useless left eye.

I’m swept back to my childhood, to the memory of a friend of my parents and my occasional babysitter.  Vivid eyepatches adorned in sequins and feathers were as colorful as her personality.  The patches were a sobering reminder to use a seat belt.  Whenever I have been tempted, I recall her admonishes, her painted finger nail pointing to an outlandish patch.  I always buckle my seat belt.

Cadence sets down the red crayon in favor of the blue. The red crayon rolls along the tilted restaurant table, its surface sticky from the touch of barbecue smothered fingers despite frequent wipe downs. Clattering as it hits a tiled floor, the crayon snuggles beside her high chair leg.

Jake slips her a potato wedge over my plateful of pork, beans, and corn on the cob. I dig into the cob, juice squirting onto my cheeks. Beans slide from my fork. I swirl the tines around until four are trapped on the ends. Holding them in front of Cadence’s mouth, I notice her eyebrows lower with the corners of her lips. Her hand is still holding the blue crayon and Jake’s potato wedge. A section of potato is missing at the top of her hand, but more noticeably, a smaller section of crayon is missing too. She opens her mouth and sticks out a tongue flaked with blue.

Jake and I laugh as I do my best to dust the flakes from her mouth. Our amusement catches the attention of a middle-aged couple seated close by. They chuckle over menus as I pluck the crayon from her hand.

Cadence pushes away from my embrace, but she’s not strong enough to resist my goodnight kisses. I blanket her cheeks in them, and set her on the bed. Whispering I love yous in hope that it will dull the effect of my actions, I back away from the bed. My hand finds the door knob, and I pull it closed as she slides off the bed, crying. It’s started; I can’t turn back now. My fingers twist around each other, my legs carry me reluctantly away.

Jake is waiting for me in the dining area. A slight tightening at the corners of his lips betray his own distress. Cadence’s wails peak; she must be spying for us under the door, waiting for her parents to rush in and tell her we were just kidding. My forehead creases; my hands tap my legs. Jake notices and shakes his head.

“She’ll be all right.”

My hands stiffen and come to a rest on my lap. His words bring me a sliver of calm. I know from past experiences this is usually harder for him, but the confidence in his voice is enough to put me a little more at ease.

After the silence has come, I quietly maneuver the door open. She has made it back into bed, although sideways and with her bottom propped high above her head. I reposition my sleeping daughter and rest one last goodnight kiss on her cheek.