Laura Altom - Daddy Daycare

He took the key ring labeled Barn from the rack, then aimed for the door, when the phone rang.

He jumped, as did Libby, who then started to cry.

“Crap,” he said, picking up the phone. “Yes?”

“I take it you’re not a morning person?” Kit asked, her chipper tone a disgustingly happy cross between sunshine and daffodils.

“Sure I am,” he said, jiggling a still-whimpering Libby back to sleep. “After a gallon of coffee and a six-mile jog.”

“Six miles?” she whistled. “Impressive.”

Why did he get the feeling she was mocking him? “There a reason you called?”

“Just wanted to make sure you’re up. And to apologize for you having to work the early shift. Or, for that matter, having to work at all. I promise to find you a replacement ASAP.”

“It’s not a problem,” he said. “If I can handle million-dollar mergers, I can handle a few little kids.”

WAAAAAAAAAAA!

“I want Mooooom-meeeeee!”

Waaaahuh! Waaaahuh!

“That’s not the way you do it,” said eight-year-old Lincoln Groves, who would, with any luck, march his know-it-all behind onto the IdaBelle Falls day-camp bus at seven-fifteen. As for Candy Craig, she’d called at six-ten to say she wouldn’t be in at all. Travis had then phoned Kit, but she was at a center in the next county.

“Okay, then,” Travis bellowed above the racket caused by two howling babies and a freaked-out preschooler. Pausing before slashing the entire top from the packet of toaster-strudel icing, he asked, “How about telling me the right way to open this before your little sister blows her last gasket?”

The freckle-faced kid with Batman glasses took the blunt-nosed scissors and the icing, calmly clipping the corner off the package before returning it to Travis. “Now you can draw her stupid hearts and flowers. Otherwise it would’ve gushed out in a big globbery pile.” Shoving his glasses up his nose, he added, “She won’t eat it if it doesn’t have hearts and flowers.”

Eyeing the packet, then the kid, Travis figured Lincoln had a point on the smaller hole making for a more efficient drawing tool. Hmph. Learn something new every day. “Thanks.”

“Uh-huh.” Lincoln patted his little sis on her back.

A few seconds later Travis had drawn some semblance of a heart and a flower on Clara’s pastry, then plopped it on a paper plate and handed it to her.

For an all too brief instant she looked down at it, then up at him, then started screaming all over again. “This isn’t right! I want Mooooooom-meeeeeee!”

Apparently Clara’s show was so impressive even Libby and her pal, four-month-old Mike, stopped screeching from their high chairs long enough to look.

Sighing, Travis asked his assistant, “What now?”

“She has to sit there before she can eat. Rule number eight.” He pointed toward a pint-size booth, then at a large colorful sign mounted alongside a white marker board. Sure enough, right after No Biting, was rule number eight—Always Eat at a Table. For those who couldn’t yet read, pictograms got the points across.

Travis took the plate from Clara, then guided her to the booth. She calmly sat. Then, once he’d landed the pastry in front of her, she gave him a glare before digging in.

“You haven’t been doing this long, have you?” Lincoln inquired.

“No. Today’s my first day. But I’m getting better, don’t you think?”

After fixing himself a bowl of Cheerios, Lincoln perched alongside his sister and quietly munched.

All of a sudden, the big red barn with its cow-chicken-horse-and-pig-themed wallpaper and bright white-and-red interior grew suspiciously silent.

“Everything okay?” Travis asked Clara, who’d frozen with the pastry hanging from her mouth. “Are you choking?” In case the word was too big for the little girl, he held his hands to his throat and made gagging noises.

She shook her head.

Mike and Libby giggled.

“You’re funny,” Lincoln said.

“Thanks,” Travis said, shoulders proudly straightening. This was a tough crowd. “Any idea what’s bugging your sister?”

Frowning, the boy nodded.

“Well?” Travis asked, wrinkling his noise at the sudden foul smell. Had Libby or Mike dropped a bomb in their diapers?

Clara started wailing again, and apparently not wanting to be left out, Libby and Mike joined in.

“What’s the matter?” Travis shouted above the racket to the little girl.

“She prob’ly pooped in her pants,” Lincoln said. “She always gets that look and cries when she does ’cause she can’t chew and poop at the same time. Plus, she’s s’posed to be potty trained, so she thinks Mom’s gonna be mad.”

Sure. Made perfect sense. If you were nearly three.

“Clara, sweetie,” Travis said, “let’s somehow get you cleaned up.”

“I want Mooooom-meeeeee!”

“Waaaaaa huuuuh,” wailed Libby.

“Argh waaaaaaaa,” cried Mike.

“You’re supposed to do somethin’,” Lincoln oh-so-helpfully pointed out, looking bored with his hands flattened over his ears.

Ruff! Ruff! Ruff!

Travis had to look twice to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. But sure enough, as if he didn’t have enough going on already, all three dogs bounded into the room.

“How did they get in here?” Travis asked, scooping Libby, then Mike, into his arms while trying to shoo the dogs back out the open rear door. “And how did the door get open?”

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