Melt Your Headaches, Call It Work

The alarm on my phone came to life, beeping like a time bomb. I tried moving to stop it, but a large mass kept me from my goal. Groaning, I lifted my head to find Georgie snuggled up against my body, her fair hair spread across my pillow like a fan.

“Hey, wake up, buttercup,” I whispered hoarsely, shaking her shoulder. “Georgie, you have to get up.” Georgie groaned, rolling over onto me, her hand smacking my jaw. Yelping, I started pushing on her sides, trying to relieve the pressure on my chest.

“Five more minutes, Daddy,” she grumbled, snuggling in closer to me.

“C’mon, Georgie, it’s really time for you to get up,” I sighed, nudging her with my hand. “Georgie, c’mon. Wake up!”

“Libby?” she mumbled, lifting her head from my chest.

“Morning, Georgie,” I grinned, helping her sit up. “C’mon, let’s get some food in your tummy before we go and meet your teacher, kay?”

“Okay…” Georgie was still half asleep, making it hard to get her out of bed and headed for her own room. After picking out her outfit for the day, the real trouble was getting her into it.

Her limbs were like wet noodles, flopping every which way and not wanting to go into the proper holes. And that was just her shirt.

“Georgie, hun, you’re going to have to help me out if you want to wear shorts today,” I grunted, trying to hold her up and force the pants on her at the same time. It wasn’t working, exactly. Yawning, Georgie lifted up a leg, and I quickly yanked the denim shorts over the limb. “Thank you. Now the other one.”

I finally managed to get Georgie dressed and got her teeth brushed when I was faced with the toughest challenge yet; her hair. Long, golden-brown, and stick straight, it looked gorgeous. That is, when she hadn’t just woken up. Currently, it was a tangle of knots, kinks, and fly-aways. I clearly had a lot of work on my hands just to make it look slightly presentable.

“Alright, Georgie, how do you want me to do your hair?” I clapped my hands, looking down at the sleepy five-and-a-half-year-old.

“I dunno,” she yawned, swatting at said hair. “Daddy normally just brushes it.”

“Yeah, well, do you want me to put it in a ponytail? Pigtails?” I wracked my brain, trying to remember how I did my hair when I was her age. “Braids?”

“No!” she shouted, suddenly awake. “No braids!”

“Okay, okay, no braids, we don’t have to braid your hair,” I backtracked, holding up my hands in surrender.

“Daddy once tried to braid my hair, it hurt,” she moaned, holding her head protectively.

“Oh c’mon, you have to have better faith in me than how you dad does your hair!” I teased, sticking my hands on my hips. “Your dad obviously just can’t braid hair!”

“Uncle Brendon tried it too,” Georgie added remorsefully.

“Tell you what, if my braiding your hair hurts, I will personally let you do whatever you want with my hair,” I bargained. “You can even make it as painful as you thought my doing your hair was. Deal?”

“Okay!” she chirped, grabbing my hand and dragging me back to her bed. Opening a drawer in her dresser, Georgie grabbed a handful of scrunchis, a comb, and a brush before dumping them in my lap.

“Let me show you how a real pro braids hair,” I boasted as I gathered her hair into one long sheet of silky smooth strands, and gently picked my way through the tough knots. Picking up each knot one at a time, I attacked the snares with the fine teeth of the comb before running the brush through the selection, just in case there was any more hiding. When the all the knots had been diminished, I separated her hair in half by using her part and started French braiding, just to prove the point that I could.

“Ta-da! Perfect, no?” I beamed, dragging her into the bathroom so she could check out her hair. “And did it hurt?”

“Thank you!” she squealed, driving at my legs so she could wrap her tiny arms around them. I patted her head, ecstatic that I had made her happy.

“Now, let’s get some food in that belly so we can go meet your new teacher!”

[&cut]

Three burnt pancakes, two fire alarms going off, and one frantic Ryan in a pair of boxers clutching a fire extinguisher later, Georgie and I were driving to her new school, a fancy private one. It looked like something out of a movie; a tall brick building with ivy crawling all over the walls, large campus, and very expensive cars parked in the parking lot.

“Next time, Georgie, don’t turn up the stove when either your Dad or I are cooking, okay?” I finally finished my lectured as we pulled into the parking lot, glancing at her through the rearview mirror. “Because that’s bad, and we don’t want the house to burn down, okay?”

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, her blue eyes glued to the window.

“It’s fine,” I shrugged. “No harm done. But,” I added, shooting a glance at her again. “Please don’t do it again. I don’t want you getting hurt, okay?”

“Okay,” she chirped, turning to look at me. “Libby?”

“Yes, Georgie?” I carefully parked Ryan’s very sleek, very new, and very expensive Cadillac Escalade. Why he let me drive it, I don’t know.

“How come Daddy’s not with us?”

“Your dad had to go to work,” I informed her, unbuckling my seatbelt and turning around to look at her. “But earlier he was telling me he wished he could come, but he couldn’t cancel his meeting.”

“Okay,” she shrugged, clambering out of her seat and jumping out of the car. “C’mon Libby, let’s go!”

We skipped our way to the kindergarten section of the lower school, headed to meet her new teacher. The classroom was all the way in the back of the building on the first floor. Parents wandered the halls, their children hurrying to see the teacher or catch up with old friends.

Georgie dragged me towards the last corridor, stopping in front of Room 3, the last door to the right. We shuffled through the entry way with all the other parents, instantly surrounded by miniature things. I felt like Dorothy did when she was swept into Oz and the munchkins came out to see her. Everything was small, the desks, the chairs, the bookshelves, the windows, the cubbies for backpacks and jackets. It was tiny.

“Hello, I’m Nicholas Jonas, the teacher,” someone announced from behind me. Startled, I turned to find a man in front of me, his hand outstretched. His dark brown, almost black, hair reminded me of one of my ex’s best friend and roommate.

“Hi, I’m Libby O’Callaghan,” I grinned, shaking his hand. Placing one hand atop Georgie’s head, I pushed her forward a bit. “This is Georgie Ross. Georgie, can you say hi to Mr. Jonas?”

“Hi, Mr. Jonas!” she chirped, grinning up at him. “Libby, can I go play over there?”

“Of course, hun,” I nodded, giving her a tiny push. “Have fun.”

“So, Mrs. Ross--”

“Oh no,” I laughed, cutting him off. “I’m just the nanny. Georgie’s not my daughter. Ryan, her dad, couldn’t make it today and asked me to take her.”

Mr. Jonas pursed his lips, his squinty eyes narrowing further. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that…