Five years, seven months, three days and about four hours into fatherhood, Jim was still learning some of the basic lessons of having a child.
Lessons like silence is actually a bad thing. And lessons like specificity is of the utmost importance.
Determined to snake a clogged bathroom drain while Pam went out to run errands, he’d set Cecelia up in the living room with paper and crayons, put on the DVD of “Annie” she’d become attached to, and instructed her to “color and call for me if you need anything.”
“Okay, Daddy,” she’d said charmingly.
An hour later, the drain back in successful working order (and his masculinity fully intact), Jim realized he hadn’t heard a peep from downstairs.
“Oh shit,” he mumbled, rushing down the steps, calling “Cece, what are you doing?”
“Drawing, Daddy,” she called back.
He stepped into the living room.
“Cecelia Marie Halpert!”
Apparently when he said “color,” he should have indicated that she was only meant to color on the paper he’d set in front of her.
Instead, the five-year-old had taken creative license with the instructions she’d been given and had created a multicolored mural on the living room wall, featuring a house, flowers, clouds, several rainbows, birds of every color, and three figures helpfully labeled “Cece,” “Momma” and “Daddy,” all with long spidery lashes and bright red grins that stretched to the edges of their faces.
At the thundering of her name, Cecelia dropped the purple crayon in her hand, her chin quivering.
“You said color,” she reminded him, tremblingly.
Jim shook his head, determined to stand his ground. “Cecelia, do you really think I meant to color on the walls that we just painted last month?”
It had taken Pam weeks to find a color she loved. They’d finally settled on a creamy sage green. Jim had loved how happy she’d looked, standing on a step ladder in jeans and an old t-shirt, covered in paint as she negotiated borders and he rolled large swaths of color on to the opposite wall, as he “couldn’t be trusted with the details,” she’d informed him.
She’d swiped at his cheek with the brush and he’d grabbed her about the waist, roller still in hand, imprinting the back of her shirt and jeans light green. One thing had lead to another and they’d made love on the drop cloth covered floor, after which Jim vowed they would never, ever hire a professional to do any paint work in the house.
And now their careful, not to mention fairly costly, work had been further enhanced by the artistic styling of one Miss Halpert.
Who had yet to answer the question her father had asked.
“Cecelia?” He started again. “Why did you color on the walls?”
“You didn’t say just the paper,” she squeaked in a tiny voice, blinking at him.
Jim groaned. “You’re a big girl,” he informed her, “you know walls are not for drawing on.”
Cecelia’s lip trembled, her blue eyes grew wide and filled with tears. “Cece’s a little girl,” she pouted in her best baby voice. “A bad little girl. Bad, bad, bad.”
Jim shook his head. He knew he was a sucker for his baby, but he also knew when he was being had.
“Oh, no Miss,” he said, reaching out and picking her up, his hands resting under her backside so she was sitting on them, eye level to him. “I am not falling for those crocodile tears.” He kissed a fat teardrop off each of her round cheeks.
“I’m bad, Daddy,” she said again.
He shook his head. “You’re not bad, Cece. You’re a good girl. But you did something wrong. You knew coloring on the walls isn’t allowed. So you have to have a punishment.”
“Stay up until this dump shines like the top of the Chrysler building?”
Jim laughed ruefully. “No, little Orphan Annie,” he said, “and don’t let your mother hear you calling her nice house a dump. But you have to clean the wall and I’m taking away your crayons and markers for a week.”
Cecelia’s mouth dropped. “Daddy!”
“Cece!” he mimicked, good naturedly.
She pouted at him. “That’s not fair.”
Jim shrugged. “Well, next time you want to color on the walls, you’ll remember that you didn’t like your punishment.” He set her down on the ground. “Go on,” he said, “go put on your old blue bathing suit so you don’t get your clothes wet and soapy.”
As Cece trotted off toward her bedroom, Jim went to the laundry room to find a bucket and some old towels. Pulling his cell phone out of his pocket, he hit a couple of numbers.
“Hey, babe,” he said when Pam answered, “wait ‘till you hear about what your daughter’s been up to…”
Author's Chapter Notes:
Apologies if the last chapter wasn't really anyone's cup of tea. I wrote it while trying to distract myself from bouts of ridiculous nausea. I feel happier with this one.
Chapter End Notes:
Can't let her get away with too much murder. Thoughts appreciated! Many thanks for reading.
