Okay, these stories are going to look familiar. That is because they have been posted before on the blog under the fiction category. I’ve place them on the navigation bar to make them more accessible. So, if you haven’t read “A Lasting Decision” or “The Redemption of Stanley Elliot” before, here’s your opportunity.

It’s a quarter to one, and Cadence’s light is shining beneath her door. The knob twists with my grip and the door opens two inches. A gentle nudge widens the gab by another two inches. Strands of dark blond hair are splayed beneath the bottom of the door’s edge. Just as I suspected, she played herself to sleep again, sprawling where her fun led her. I nudge the door open enough to slip through.

The scent of her sweat is thick, saturating the stale bedroom air. Trapped heat smothers my skin, likely adding the scent of my own sweat to hers. My old pink t-shirt is bunched just over her butt, exposing a cheek that shouldn’t be exposed. A cursory glance finds her discarded diaper across the room. I pick it up, weigh it, and roll it into a harmless cylinder. The diaper is heavy, soiled. It seems the soiled diaper was too unbearable, too wet against her skin to be endured, and I can’t say I blame her. I set the diaper aside, reminding myself to take care of it on my way out.

I lift her from the floor with my arms looped under hers. The contact is unpleasant in the heat, but unavoidable. She curls her knees into her chest as I drape a sheet over her. That should be more than enough to keep her warm tonight.

I contemplate switching the A.C. on, thinking that spring didn’t last long enough.

Two pairs of eyes follow us as we spread a dark green comforter beneath the sparse shelter of a budding tree. The kids travel along the monkey bar triangles and playground catwalk, darting curious glances our way, until they lose interest. Cadence runs toward the slides, her feet rustling through wood chips. Jake follows her, wood pieces sliding into his flip flops and stabbing his toes.

I adjust my sunglasses lower on my nose, the lenses peeling from my cheeks. I think of them as my movie star glasses: the gigantic lenses masking the top half of my face, and the sides screwed to two fancy gold hinges. Jake calls them my racquetball goggles. They work well on this bright day.

The breeze is gentle on Hana. Her breaths come even and untroubled, until I set her on her belly. She lifts her head, the effort crinkling her forehead. It sways from one side to the other as she uttering whining grunts. She gives up, erupting into a fit of wails. Cadence’s delighted squeals intertwine with Hana’s cries. I pry my digital camera from my purse, and snap pictures of Cadence’s progress through the air as Jake pushes her higher on the swing.

More blankets join ours on the grass. More squeals and shouts join Cadence’s. I bounce and sway Hana into complacency as chaos conquers the playground. Jake and Cadence desert the swings and then the slides. They wander to a patch of lawn beside our comforter, where Cadence’s squeals continue in a losing tickle war. The other lawn sitters watch with smiles on their faces as Jake chases, tickles, and tosses her. The day is irresistible, but the playground has become crowded. We sweep our comforter off the lawn and pack ourselves back into the car.

It was nice while it lasted.

“Where are you going?” Jake’s voice is groggy, his eyes squinting against the light shining from the bathroom.

“I gotta take the garbages out,” I answer while throwing a baggy shirt over my head. It’s late, one o’clock in the morning, but I won’t rest easy until this is out of the way.

“We can get them in the morning,” he mumbles.

No we can’t. I proceed to explain that the first truck comes before we wake up. The first truck is the one we shouldn’t miss, the actual garbage truck. The others, recycling and green waste, don’t come for much later. Jake grunts in reply, noting the determination in my voice.

I slip on my ancient Vans below tapered pajama pants once I reach the entry-way landing. The effect is very flattering, like a nerdy skater. The garbage rattles down the drive behind me, echoes rebound down the still street. During the day, this wouldn’t make a noticeable sound with the various other sounds, but the street is eerie with its emptiness, like the people have disappeared from it forever. A shiver bolts up my back from the cold and a little something else. I park the bin by the curb, taking one last glimpse at the street.

Fumbling with the locks, I secure the door behind me and kick off my vans. I climb up the stairs and into bed. “I’m cold,” I say. Jake’s breaths are heavy, but his arm responds, wrapping its warmth around me. The cold slips quietly away.

The drone of construction and an airplane cuts through the rabid chirping of birds. The flock darts around my backyard before fluttering to the next, stealing pieces of the dog’s food and grass seed as they go. No song birds in this bunch, just layer on layer of shrill staccato notes.

Green blades are escaping the thawed ground at last, our lawn confirming the end of a long winter. The lure of spring is irresistible, drawing all the neighbor kids from the prison of their rooms. They roam along the streets on bikes and powerwheels with shouts of joy. The lure is strong enough to draw us outside too. I squeal as Jake’s water gun, blasts me in the ear, and run with my guns pointed behind me. Is it enough to hope that my gun finds its target without aiming?

“Stop, stop,” Jake whines as he comes closer, unleashing squirts of water into my face. So, I did get him. I continue throwing random shots over my shoulder, more water filling my ear.

“Stop, no more,” I echo, as my hair drips water down my neck.

The battle continues up the stairs. Cadence quietly follows, examining her water gun and shooting at whichever one of us is closer.

Maybe water guns for ages 4 + are too childish a gift for a man in his mid twenties, but he doesn’t seem to mind as he shoots a fresh round at my head. Black makeup pools below my eyes when we call it quits. We huddle inside, shutting the excitement of spring behind us.

My fingers snag in the sopping mane of orange hair. It looks bad from every angle. A laugh of hysteria burbles from my lips. What else can I do? I’m out of bleach (apparently, two packs isn’t enough) and any quick fix requires me to leave the house and be seen in public… like this.

I laugh again. That can’t happen. One step outside my front door, and everyone on the block will see the orange glowing from my head like a fluorescing pineapple.

My hair dries, the orange brightening as it does. The strands now feel like straw under my touch. I debate the pros and cons of living in my house for the duration of forever.

No, it can’t be done. I fish through my closet, my desperate hands grabbing and flinging items until they clamp onto hat I’ve worn once before. I pair it with a zip up sweatshirt, drawing the hood over my hat, and then dodge out of the house.

If this doesn’t work, I’ll have to call in reinforcements. Orange is not my color.

Teriyaki chicken and boneless pork spareribs sit precariously in my stomach. One clumsy move could send them back up the way they came. That wouldn’t be such a bad thing at this point. Never have I been so happy to leave a buffet restaurant behind. The various types of meat were dark and hardened from hours under the heat lamps, the octopus and craw fish seemed ready to crawl out of their dishes, the noodles were dripping with grease, and the Mongolian BBQ failed to redeem the restaurant from our do not return list.

Cadence looks at me, widening her green eyes. Jack and the Beanstalk lays on her lap.

“Mow stowy?” she asks.

I explain that the story is over and that it is time for mommy to go. She doesn’t believe me until I hug and kiss her goodnight. It is the perfect fix for a day spent disciplining her. At least I know where to find her when she disappears. I follow the trail of cold air to the open back door. I call her back in, her feet and arms bare, and her fingers red and raw with cold.

Her fingers are warm now as she returns the hug.

“G’night, Mommy,” she repeats as she blows kisses. I back out the door, sending her my own handful of kisses.

The evening isn’t a total bust as I spy Jake gaze down at a contented Hana. She’s curled in the crook of his arm, sighing and grunting, making the odd baby sounds that makes one smile. And he is smiling, his eyes glinting and curving at each glance, a man who couldn’t be happier with his two little girls.

It makes it easy, despite all we’ve been through, to believe in him, to trust him completely. With Cadence now in bed, I free up his arms, taking Hana into my own and settling on the bed. I feel a sense of satisfaction looking at my little family. It isn’t perfect, but it seems like it is.

The nausea passes as memory of bins brimming with old greasy food are forgotten.