You are in the middle of painting your nails when the twins burst into your room. All of you freeze, staring at each other with matching wide eyes.
All of a sudden you can hear your heartbeat rushing in your ears. Tammy makes quick, assessing glances at you in your undershirt and boxers, at the bed where your outfit is laid out, at your open messy closet. Tommy, always behind his sister, peeks shyly over her shoulder bouncing between your face and the bottle of nail polish in your hands.
You can feel the burn of shame crawling it’s way up your face, this was stupid. Why didn’t you lock the door? (You never lock the door, you always want your kids to have access to you). This was worse than stupid, this was wrong. So wrong.
“DAD!” Tammy yells–for the past few months, Tammy has stopped saying things when she has the option to scream it loudly instead–finally coming closer. “OH MY GOD, DAD!” She yells again, before glaring, as expected, at the dress on your bed.
You are bracing yourself for the stinging blow of rejection.
“BROWN HORIZONTAL STRIPES! THAT’S TERRIBLE! WE LOOK TERRIBLE IN BROWN, DAD! AND HORIZONTAL STRIPES ARE EVEN WORSE!” She stomps towards your closet, burrowing herself into the mess towards the furthest corners. “I KNOW YOU HAVE SOMETHING BETTER IN HERE. THAT NICE PASTEL FLORAL ONE,” Her voice, though muffled is still clearly audible.
Tommy, a silent shadow in comparison to his sister, but no pushover, has sidled up towards you. He’s already taken the nail polish bottle out of your shaking hands and with practiced neatness, paints the fingernails on your right hand which had been giving you trouble. He smiles gently at you, noting the sheer bewilderment on your face, and pats your bicep.
“PAISLEY! NOTHING AND NO ONE LOOKS GOOD IN PAISLEY! NEXT TIME YOU GO DRESS SHOPPING I’M COMING WITH YOU!” Tammy’s voice makes it’s way out of the closet.
“We saw them when we were playing hide and seek one time,” Tommy explains, still calmly painting coats of pink on your nails. It’s lighter than the shade of your favorite tie, “She said the same thing the first time she saw them, too.”
You’re trying really hard not to cry. Because all the worry and secrecy of the past few weeks, all of it had apparently been for nothing. Your kids don’t hate you, they don’t see you as wrong or sick. They still see their Dad, albeit a Dad who likes to dress up and needs help doing so.
Tammy strides out of the closet triumphantly, the pastel floral dress waving on the hanger like a flag. It’s the one that you were looking forward to trying on the most; you were working your way up to it.
“I FOUND IT!” Tammy announces smugly, as if the two of them weren’t able to tell, “OOH! THAT’S A NICE COLOR! ARE YOU GOING TO DO YOUR TOES TOO? WHAT SHOES DO YOU HAVE?” She glances down at the brown flats you’ve laid out next to the dress she’s already rejected. Her lips purse in displeasure; you aren’t all that fond of them either, but they fit, which can’t always be said about women’s shoes. “NEVER MIND. TOMMY MAKE SURE DAD’S TOES ARE DONE TOO, I’M PRETTY SURE THERE ARE FLIP-FLOPS THAT WOULD WORK. THIS IS A SUNDRESS, SO IT’S FINE.” After depositing her loot onto the bed, markedly on top of the other dress, she braves her way back into the closet.
Tommy, having already finished with your hands, looks warily down at your bare feet then back up to you, unable to hide his cringe.
You laugh, a little more than the situation warrants, “I’ll do it myself when my hands are dry,” you reassure your son. You just showered, so all of you is squeaky clean, and anyway your feet aren’t ugly just big. But Tommy has a mild fear of feet; you aren’t so incompetent with a nail brush as to make your son face that.
Gratefully, he closes the nail polish bottle and sets it down on your nightstand. He clambers up onto the bed next to you, fidgeting a little unsurely, before pulling your new outfit for the day into his lap. “This is better,” He nods, agreeing with his sister’s decision, and smiles back up at you.
Your relief has already crashed through you like a flood, but it’s only now that the tears finally come. You can’t wipe them away, because your fingernails are still drying and you don’t want to mess Tommy’s hard work.
“GOT THEM!” Tammy crawls back out, your light yellow flip-flops clutched in her left hand. It doesn’t quite match the dress, but it doesn’t outrightly clash either, so she’s satisfied with them. “DAD! WHY ARE YOU CRYING?” She drops the sandals and leaps onto the bed on your other side, the impact makes Tommy bounce half a foot into the air, but you’re heavy enough that it only just shakes you.
She flings her arms around your neck and shoulders from behind you–this is a hug to be received, not reciprocated. Tommy just leans his head against your side.
If anything, that just makes you cry harder. Your kids–your fantastic, supportive, perfect kids–stay where they are, waiting patiently.
When you’re finally done, the twins gently press a tissue to each side of your face. Your face is warm and your eyes are probably puffy, but you feel better now.
“You don’t have much hair to work with,” Tammy muses, her hands ruffling through your still damp locks. You laugh, because in comparison to your partially balding coworkers, you have an envious amount of hair, “I have a clip that might work? So your bangs don’t fly everywhere like they usually do,” She’s inherited your wild hair, so she knows what she’s talking about.
“We could go to the beach?” Tommy suggests quietly, and he means well–it’s a nice gesture, they don’t mind other people knowing how their Dad likes to wear dresses sometimes, they’re not ashamed. But maybe you’re not as accepting or as brave because at the idea of other people seeing… all you can feel is a tightening in your throat and a tenseness in your shoulders at the idea. Tammy, still curled around you, feels it too.
“Let’s order in pizza! And we can play video games!” Your daughter says, careful not to completely reject her brother’s idea.
“Oh,” Tommy pauses for a moment, then adds, “Yeah, Dad, we can finally get through all of Nicktoons Unite.”
You love your kids so much. You smile and nod, that sounds like a good plan.
“OKAY!” Tammy yells, thankfully having jumped off the bed and far enough from your ears, “I’LL GO GET THAT CLIP! YOU GUYS ORDER PIZZA! NO BLACK OLIVES!” She runs out the door, footsteps stomping.
Tommy looks up at you beseechingly.
“We can get two different pizzas. One with black olives, one without,”
He nods and also leaves, probably headed to wherever he left his laptop to order the pizza online. You really can get anything on the Internet nowadays.
“Make sure both of them have other vegetables!” You call out after him. You’re not sure if he heard you or not, so if the pizzas do end up vegetable-less you’ll let it pass.
You look at yourself in your mirror. You’re still you, adam’s apple and biceps and square jaw. But each of your fingernails are painted taffy pink, and you’ve done your best at shaving away your facial, underarm, and leg hair. You have a dress waiting to be worn laying on your bed, you still need to paint your toenails to match, and your daughter is coming back with a hair clip to share.
You will wear that dress. You will paint your toenails. You will let your daughter arrange your hair to her liking. Then you and your amazing kids will eat pizza and play video games.
You are happy.
~
A/N: Well… I dunno if anyone noticed it while reading, but basically this is adult Timmy Turner of Fairly Odd Parents fame, with his two kids that we see in the Channel Chasers movie. But, uh, hopefully none of that is necessary to enjoy the drabble. Also, I’m not too keen on the ending though I like this drabble over all.
Wooh! This is the first time I posted way before midnight.
JackSGreyson Says 