If You'd Be So Willing

one for the money

"She would've made such a lovely bride
What a shame she's fucked in the head." - Champagne Problems by Taylor Swift

"Are you all packed?!" You called up to your seven year-old daughter. You, of course, expected one answer, but you got another and you're not completely sure why you're surprised.

You had left her unsupervised. Why in the world would she be ready?

"Almost, Mommy!" The little girl called down from her room. The sound of her voice was strained, as though she was lifting something heavy.

"Do you need help?" Your eyebrows furrowed and you looked up the stairwell, even though you couldn't see into her room from there.

There was a pause, and then a thump, followed by a small 'oof', "Nope. My backpack strap was stuck on my bedpost. I'm coming down now!"

You heard the familar pitter patter of small, socked feet hitting the hardwood steps too quickly for your liking.

"Slow down, Ry." You admonished without looking up from where you were rummaging around the livingroom for your car keys. They were around there somewhere. They always were.

The pitter patter slowed into something more respectable, until it finally ended at the end of the staircase. You turned around just in time to watch your little daredevil jump off the last two steps with a loud "Ta-da!"

You didn't have the heart to scold her. She was excited and there was only so much energy her little body could take before it had to let it out somehow.

"Mommy! Today's the day! I'm so excited!" She shoved her feet into her Nike slides, as you pocketed your keys, then placed some snacks into your purse.

"I know, but you don't want to hurt yourself before tryouts." You ushered your daughter out the front door of your home, making sure to lock it behind you.

"Mommy. I'm a shoe in for the club team, Coach Kriegs already told me. I won't have to play with the babies anymore!" She jumped around, but stayed obediently by your side, waiting to follow your lead to the car.

You laughed at your daughter's arrogance. Depsite having your ex-wife's entire face, she got her attitude from you, "One, you're a baby yourself. Two, would it kill you to be a little modest?"

"Yes!" She screeched. Then she unceremoniously threw her backpack into the trunk of your blue Acura MDX. It landed haphazardly amongst the other various baby football equipment you kept back there on day's like today.

Fuck. You really were a soccer mom. No wonder you were comically single.

"And I'm not a baby! I'm seven and I read at a sixth grade level!" Your definitely-not-a-baby stomped her sandaled foot on the concrete of the driveway.

You pressed the button to close the trunk of the car, then grabbed your daughter's cheeks between your hands. You kissed her forehead until she squirmed away with laughter.

"You're my baby. Now, get into the car."

Ryan did as told, still beyond eager to get to your destination.

You hopped into the driver's seat before pulling out of your driveway and onto the open roads of your quiet Portland neighborhood.

"Yeah. I'm your baby. And Mama's! Which is why I'm going to be on the big kid team, and one day start on the senior national team. Gonna have medals just like you, Mommy." She kicked her gangly little legs in excitement.

You smiled brightly. There was no doubt in your mind about her statement, though, you still needed to work on that damned cockiness, "Damn right, Babygirl."