horror. He looked from the red-clad, bearded stranger upon whose knee he sat, to the goggle-eyed elf holding up the squeaking thing. Charlie sucked in a breath, and there was a moment of perfect, stunned silence.
Take it, take it, take it, Daisy thought.
The elf pressed the shutter a split second too late. By that moment, Charlie’s face had contorted into a mask of abject terror. His tiny T-shirt read Santa Loves Me but his expression said, “Who’s the freak?” He let out a tortured wail that could probably be heard by everyone standing in line outside the gingerbread-bedecked cottage.
Daisy swooped in and rescued him. He clung to her, a shuddering mass of sobs, his wet face pushed into her chest, his tiny fists digging into her sweater. He refused to let go even long enough for her to get his parka on him, so she settled for merely draping it around his shoulders. “You’ll probably catch pneumonia,” she muttered.
“’Monia,” he echoed with a tragic sniffle.
She made her way toward the exit, which obliged her to parade the tormented child past the other waiting children and parents. At a glance, they appeared to be well-groomed, calm children, accompanied by their soccer moms and commuter dads. Daisy could imagine them critiquing her parenting, speculating that she’d given her toddler too much candy or skipped his nap. (Guilty on both counts, but still.) That was the trouble with teenage mothers, they’d probably say. They just aren’t ready to be parents.
Daisy wasn’t a teenager anymore, but she still looked it, having rushed from class in her worn jeans and old snowboard parka to pick Charlie up from the sitter. She’d been pregnant at eighteen, a mother at nineteen. In just a short time, she’d gone from being a student at a Manhattan prep school to being a single mother in a small town, where she’d moved to be close to her family. Now Charlie was two and a half, and she was pushing twenty-one, which sounded young, yet there were times when being a single mom made her feel older than rock itself.
She sneaked a glance at a woman in heeled boots and a fashionable houndstooth jacket, bending down to put the finishing touches on her silky-haired daughter’s bow. The two of them looked as if they’d stepped out of the pages of a magazine. How did they do it? Daisy wondered. How did they look so pulled-together and calm, instead of rushing from place to place, always forgetting something?
Deep breath, she told herself. She was blessed many times over with plenty of friends and family for support. She did acknowledge that she struggled because living on her own was her choice. Though her family had money, Daisy possessed a streak of independence and pride that made her want to succeed on her own. Charlie was healthy, she was making her way toward a college degree (albeit slowly) and getting occasional work in photography, her area of discipline at the State University at New Paltz. The holidays were on their way, the first big snow of the year had arrived, and life was good enough. She reminded herself to find and savor the moments of sweetness.
“Okay,” she said to Charlie. “I’m relaxed. So what if we didn’t get a shot with Santa?”
“Santa!” Charlie said, rearing back to regard her with shining eyes. “Lub him.”
“Right. We got a picture of just how much you love him.” They walked by a path marked by human-size lollipops. She stopped and made him put on his parka then, because it was a bit of a hike across the park to the car. “I’ll do your Christmas picture myself,” she said. “We don’t need no stinkin’ Santa.”
“Santa!” He clapped his hands, clearly still in love with the idea of Santa. Plunking him on the lap of a fat, bearded stranger—now, that was another story.
“We’ll try the real thing again next year,” she said. “This year, it’ll be Photoshop Santa.”
“Okay, Mom,” he said.
“No problem.” Manipulating a shot of Charlie with
Take it, take it, take it, Daisy thought.
The elf pressed the shutter a split second too late. By that moment, Charlie’s face had contorted into a mask of abject terror. His tiny T-shirt read Santa Loves Me but his expression said, “Who’s the freak?” He let out a tortured wail that could probably be heard by everyone standing in line outside the gingerbread-bedecked cottage.
Daisy swooped in and rescued him. He clung to her, a shuddering mass of sobs, his wet face pushed into her chest, his tiny fists digging into her sweater. He refused to let go even long enough for her to get his parka on him, so she settled for merely draping it around his shoulders. “You’ll probably catch pneumonia,” she muttered.
“’Monia,” he echoed with a tragic sniffle.
She made her way toward the exit, which obliged her to parade the tormented child past the other waiting children and parents. At a glance, they appeared to be well-groomed, calm children, accompanied by their soccer moms and commuter dads. Daisy could imagine them critiquing her parenting, speculating that she’d given her toddler too much candy or skipped his nap. (Guilty on both counts, but still.) That was the trouble with teenage mothers, they’d probably say. They just aren’t ready to be parents.
Daisy wasn’t a teenager anymore, but she still looked it, having rushed from class in her worn jeans and old snowboard parka to pick Charlie up from the sitter. She’d been pregnant at eighteen, a mother at nineteen. In just a short time, she’d gone from being a student at a Manhattan prep school to being a single mother in a small town, where she’d moved to be close to her family. Now Charlie was two and a half, and she was pushing twenty-one, which sounded young, yet there were times when being a single mom made her feel older than rock itself.
She sneaked a glance at a woman in heeled boots and a fashionable houndstooth jacket, bending down to put the finishing touches on her silky-haired daughter’s bow. The two of them looked as if they’d stepped out of the pages of a magazine. How did they do it? Daisy wondered. How did they look so pulled-together and calm, instead of rushing from place to place, always forgetting something?
Deep breath, she told herself. She was blessed many times over with plenty of friends and family for support. She did acknowledge that she struggled because living on her own was her choice. Though her family had money, Daisy possessed a streak of independence and pride that made her want to succeed on her own. Charlie was healthy, she was making her way toward a college degree (albeit slowly) and getting occasional work in photography, her area of discipline at the State University at New Paltz. The holidays were on their way, the first big snow of the year had arrived, and life was good enough. She reminded herself to find and savor the moments of sweetness.
“Okay,” she said to Charlie. “I’m relaxed. So what if we didn’t get a shot with Santa?”
“Santa!” Charlie said, rearing back to regard her with shining eyes. “Lub him.”
“Right. We got a picture of just how much you love him.” They walked by a path marked by human-size lollipops. She stopped and made him put on his parka then, because it was a bit of a hike across the park to the car. “I’ll do your Christmas picture myself,” she said. “We don’t need no stinkin’ Santa.”
“Santa!” He clapped his hands, clearly still in love with the idea of Santa. Plunking him on the lap of a fat, bearded stranger—now, that was another story.
“We’ll try the real thing again next year,” she said. “This year, it’ll be Photoshop Santa.”
“Okay, Mom,” he said.
“No problem.” Manipulating a shot of Charlie with
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