Chapter Sixteen

Kent

I woke up with Pearly snuggled around my head, Barrett against my side.

Pearly was funny like that—when they decided they wanted to be with someone, they made sure they were with them. Sometimes that meant sleeping on a foot, and other times, like today, it meant I wore a dog hat. But one thing about Pearly was that they always let you know exactly what they needed and, if you didn’t listen, they kept on pushing.

“Pearly, what are you doing, silly dog?” I whispered, not wanting to wake Daddy.

It was still early, but no part of me wanted to stay in bed. It was Christmas, and unlike last year, I wasn’t sitting around wondering if my daddy cared enough about me to spend the day together. I didn’t have to wait for anything because there he was—right by my side.

He not only cared enough to spend the day with me— he wanted to spend it with me. He loved me, and there was no place he’d rather be on the holiday.

It was so hard not to be loud. It was Christmas, and he deserved to sleep in. Just because I couldn’t wait to have Christmas morning with him didn’t mean I needed to wake him up. Even if he slept until one in the afternoon, I’d still spend the day with him. What was the rush?

The rush was that it was my little Christmas. My patience was nonexistent. I saw Daddy sneaking out of the room last night. There were going to be more presents under the tree for me today. I just knew it. And my money was on them being little presents, too.

I totally needed to wake him up.

I felt a little guilty about it, but lying in bed being quiet—aside from a couple whispers to Pearly—wasn’t going to work. It was too much for this boy.

I rolled over and placed my hand on Barrett’s cheek, the dog starting stirring by my head. Daddy smiled before opening his eyes.

“Excited about Christmas already?”

“Yes, Daddy! I want to see if Santa came!”

“First, we need to take care of Pearly, get you cleaned up and dressed, and put something in your belly.” Why did he have to be stupid practical.

“Can I at least see if he came first? Please, please, please?”

“Fine. You can look and see if he came while I take Pearly outside. But when I come back, it’s tubby time, getting-dressed time, and then eating time. No arguments.”

“Okay, Daddy!” I would try. That was the best I could do. The argument part might be a little too much for me.

I never got out of bed so fast, running straight into the living room. Sure enough, there were presents under the tree, all wrapped in my favorite Christmas paper—Rudolph! I had a present for Daddy too, though most of my gifts for him were given the night before. This was my little side’s gift to him, the one I’d been waiting for.

After seeing they were there, I ran into the bathroom to pee and brush my teeth while Daddy took Pearly outside. The faster I got the list done, the sooner I could open my gifts, and the sooner Daddy would open his.

Pearly was probably not too thrilled to discover it had snowed overnight—or maybe she was having a blast running in it. I didn’t know. I wasn’t thrilled about it, though, because snow meant shoveling, and who liked to shovel on Christmas? Snow angels and snowmen? Absolutely. But snow removal was for the birds.

Pearly came into the bathroom as soon as I opened the door. That meant Daddy was back inside.

“I’m in the bathroom!” I called, not wanting him to think I was hiding somewhere with a present. I might’ve been more open with myself and with him than I ever had before, but I still didn’t want to be a brat. I liked being good—that was true—but I was longer going to act like a doormat. I understood that now.

“Oh, look at you, ready for your tubby.” He stepped into the bathroom. “Why don’t you go open the present on the kitchen table while I get the water ready?”

I ran—again. It was apparently a day for that, and sure enough, there was a present on the table, wrapped in gnome paper. I tore it open—not even pretending to be careful—and inside was an incredible collection of rubber ducks.

It was a family of ducks, all different sizes and dressed as gnomes—not exactly Christmas gnomes, but not the garden kind either. It was as if the company decided to make gnomes but didn’t fully understand what they were. They were fabulous.

I stacked them all in my shirt and carefully made my way back to the bathroom, not wanting to drop any of them.

“Daddy, these are the best! Can we play? Can we play? Can we play?” The ducks were great, and I’d have fun playing with them on my own, but not as much fun as I had playing with Daddy.

“We can,” he said. “Now, let’s get you undressed and into the hot, soapy water. Then I’ll put the ducks in with you while I take the cinnamon rolls out and stick them in the oven. That way, they’ll be ready when it’s time.”

The cinnamon rolls were prepped the day before and had been sitting in the fridge proofing for more than twelve hours—exactly as needed for a perfect Christmas morning breakfast according to the recipe, one I trusted. Daddy had been smarter than me; he didn’t get his recipes from some random website. He got them from someone at work and had eaten the rolls before. He knew exactly what we were getting, unlike with my shrimp fiasco.

I sank into the soapy water, Daddy holding my hand to make sure I didn’t slip. It was the perfect temperature, and the bubble bath smelled like bubble gum—great for helping me slip into my little space.

One by one, he put the ducks into the water with me. And, after giving me a list of safety rules, he stepped out to take care of breakfast.

While Daddy was gone, I named each and every one of the ducks. And when he came back, we played together—the ducks went on an adventure, decided to live in the desert as ducks do in books and nowhere else to my knowledge, and eventually moved back to the water.

We had so much fun, but the water got cold after a while. It was time to get out, like it or not.

Daddy helped me up, rinsed me off, and brought me into the bedroom, where he’d laid out my clothes for the day: an adorable Santa outfit with a onesie, fuzzy red pants trimmed with white faux fur at the waist and ankles, and a bell on each toe. It was paired with an antler headband because, of course, Santa needs a reindeer.

“I match!” I twirled in front of the mirror.

“You, my sweet boy, are gorgeous.”

The cinnamon rolls filled the house with a wonderful smell, but when he checked on them, they still weren’t ready.

“That’s not fair!” I pouted.

“Did you want me to make you something else while we wait?”

“No, I want prezzie time, and you said we had to eat first.” I didn’t want that part— the waiting.

“Well, since the food isn’t done, maybe we should have prezzie time now?”

I nearly knocked him over, throwing my arms around him and hugging him tight. “Really, Daddy? Really? Really”

“Yes, really.”

I was jumping up and down with excitement and taking him with me. It was shocking I didn’t give him motion sickness.

Sitting criss-cross applesauce on the floor in front of the tree, I opened the presents one by one. There was a sippy cup, a board game, and some books—things any little would love. Then he pulled out a large, heavy box.

“What is it?” I asked. I hadn’t ask for anything electronic or for the kitchen. Duplo were much lighter. “Are you sure this is for me?”

“I am. You’re going to love it.” He tapped the top of the box, indicating I should get to it.

I tore the paper and opened the plain cardboard box. It gave nothing away. I yanked off the tape. Inside was the weighted dragon from the arcade.

“You went back! You went back for me!”

“I did. I figured there wouldn’t be any Christmas dragons left after Christmas, and I remembered the look on your face when you saw it. I wanted you to have it.”

“It’s the best, Daddy!” I hugged the dragon tightly. “I’m going to go put it on the bed for naptime.”

“Okay, sweet boy. You do that.”

When I came back, I had the gift I’d bought for him. It was small—nothing as fancy as what he’d gotten me—but when I saw it, I thought of him.

“I got you this, Daddy.” I sat beside him on the couch.

“You already got me so much, good boy.”

“But now I got you this. Open it! Open it! Open it!”

He tore the paper and lifted the lid. Inside was a mug from a local craftsman. Etched into the clay before glazing and firing were the words World’s Best Daddy .

“They must have known I was coming to the store,” I said. “Look! They made a special mug just for you.”

He set it on the coffee table and pulled me onto his lap.

“If I’m the world’s best daddy, it’s only because I have the world’s bestest boy.”

I wasn’t sure how true that was, but maybe—just maybe—I was the world’s bestest boy for him.

And that was enough.

“Merry Christmas, Daddy.”

“Merry Christmas, Kent.”