The Helper

WIth the advent of Mihiretu, Mae has become my right hand man. She's most always up for checking on her brother if he's out on the cul-de-sac, picking up a Croc if it's dropped as I carry him, answering the phone politely if I'm in the shower.

The other day I had all three kids in the car and I was craving coffee. I only drink decaf these days, but the java jones dies hard. It was raining and Mihiretu was about to drop off for a nap. Pulling them all out of the van and herding them into Peets didn't seem worth it. Then inspiration struck. For the next couple of miles, Mae and I practiced my order until she had it memorized. We lucked out with a parking space right in front. I handed Mae three bucks and my travel cup and out she went, feeling so adult.

Minutes later, she emerged triumphant. She hopped in the van, handed me my coffee and change with a proud smile. I quizzed her about her experience. She said that the girl who took her order asked no questions. What that lady made of an eight-year-old ordering a decaf latte, I have no idea.

As I drove away, savoring the first sips of that foamy yumminess, I marveled. That tiny baby with the mohawk now reads novels, comes up to my breastbone and buys me coffee. Yay, Mae.