Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 36428 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 182(@200wpm)___ 146(@250wpm)___ 121(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 36428 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 182(@200wpm)___ 146(@250wpm)___ 121(@300wpm)
I made these exact same faces at her age.
And according to my loudly snoring, very sated husband, I still make them now.
I, however, beg to differ.
My scowl looks nothing like that anymore.
It damn sure doesn’t look like an exact replica minus the devilishly red lip stain that my daughter already keeps begging to wear.
“That was the deal, Kat.” My arms fold firmly over my white, open neck button down blouse. “And what does Mama say about keeping your word?”
“Vashe slovo - vasha svyaz'.”
Not smirking at her sassiness of responding in Russian is damn near impossible. “In English.”
“Your word is your bond.”
“Meaning?”
“If you say you’re gonna do somethin’,” her hands relocate to her lap, “then do it or you are not to be trusted.”
A truth her father seemed to have momentarily forgotten.
Trust is much more fragile than love.
Love is so expendable. Most people pick up and drop off love like it’s a child at fucking summer camp or fake it like it’s an emotional orgasm needed for the other person to move forward with something more important. Love is easy to mutilate and lie about.
But trust?
Trust is significantly frailer.
One misplaced word or poorly picked action and the shit can shatter into a million tiny shards you will never fully be able to put back together to what it once was.
Is it still viable in the fractured version once all the cracks have been resealed?
Yes.
Will it survive a second drop?
Perhaps.
But each time that shit hits the ground, more pieces are chipped away.
More pieces are lost.
Left behind.
And unlike love – which most people believe fucking regenerates itself like the goddamn axolotl my daughter wants for Christmas – missing trust stays missing.
The key to holding onto what’s left is being aware of this and doing everything you can to prevent from adding to the damage.
I didn’t relish in having to explain that to my husband last night, but I’m glad I did. Honestly, I think we both needed to hear that shit out loud. Be in agreement about the boundaries, the expectations, and the work required for us to continue to make this marriage function on more than paper.
As much as I wish he would’ve just come to me about the insecurities that led him to overstepping his place, I…actually…understand why he didn’t.
I’m – admittedly – not the easiest person to talk to, but you know what, I’ve gotten better!
Just…not good enough I suppose.
Communication in my marriage is where I apparently lack excellence.
I’ll work on it.
Strive for better the same way I constantly strive to be a better mom.
After nodding in acknowledgement of her correct recalling regarding the definition of trust, I proceed, “Exactly, which is why I woke up extra early – having slept maybe an hour – to personally make you French Toast.” The tip of my index finger lands on the edge of the plate to drag it over. “I kept my end of the deal. Now, you keep yours.”
“Oui maman.”
“Oui très bien.” Allowing the corner of my lips to curve upward is accompanied by pushing her breakfast closer. “And what do you eat your French Toast with?”
“Une fourchette.”
Producing the utensil for her to use out of what seems like thin air receives a wide beam. “Oui très bien.” Kat immediately reaches for it, prompting me to remind, “Manners, my tiny dancer.”
“S'il te plait.”
“Oui très bien,” Yavok states upon entering the room with Vlad in his clutches. “Accent impressive, malen'kaya balerina.” He drops a small, warm kiss onto her cheek. “Why speaking French?” My husband moves before our son can successfully grab a handful of syrup. “Not foreign language cover this semester.” Heading around the island to give me the same loving greeting occurs next. “That Spanish.”
“She asked me if she could take French lessons-”
“I wanna speak it in Paris someday!” Kat joyfully exclaims around a mouthful of the soggy concoction.
“Oh, like Miss Lee,” he states, obviously not needing more of an explanation.
His chaste kiss precedes being shot a stern glare. “In the future, let’s refrain from saying another woman’s name right before kissing your wife.”
An arrogant chortle is attached to his compliance. “Da.”
“Kat requested French lessons, which I agreed to let her engage in for the next six weeks, once a week for now, around school, rehearsal, and fencing, on the condition that we go into our first lesson prepared.” I swing my gaze back to my oldest who is beyond gleeful over her breakfast. “And what does Mama say about being prepared?”
She picks up a piece of bacon on a contemplative nose scrunch. “Always be prepared?”
“That Boy Scouts, malen'kaya balerina,” her father corrects on a small chuckle.
Kat’s small shoulders bounce as Vlad is placed in his booster seat beside her.
“By failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail.” Sliding my hands into my red, wide leg pants is done between scolding statements. “And we prepare for success in this family. Always, Katarina. Understood?”