Daddy Daycare. Laura Altom Marie

packet, then the kid, Travis figured Lincoln had a point on the smaller hole making for a more efficient drawing tool. Hmph. Learn something new every day. “Thanks.”

      “Uh-huh.” Lincoln patted his little sis on her back.

      A few seconds later Travis had drawn some semblance of a heart and a flower on Clara’s pastry, then plopped it on a paper plate and handed it to her.

      For an all too brief instant she looked down at it, then up at him, then started screaming all over again. “This isn’t right! I want Mooooooom-meeeeeee!”

      Apparently Clara’s show was so impressive even Libby and her pal, four-month-old Mike, stopped screeching from their high chairs long enough to look.

      Sighing, Travis asked his assistant, “What now?”

      “She has to sit there before she can eat. Rule number eight.” He pointed toward a pint-size booth, then at a large colorful sign mounted alongside a white marker board. Sure enough, right after No Biting, was rule number eight—Always Eat at a Table. For those who couldn’t yet read, pictograms got the points across.

      Travis took the plate from Clara, then guided her to the booth. She calmly sat. Then, once he’d landed the pastry in front of her, she gave him a glare before digging in.

      “You haven’t been doing this long, have you?” Lincoln inquired.

      “No. Today’s my first day. But I’m getting better, don’t you think?”

      After fixing himself a bowl of Cheerios, Lincoln perched alongside his sister and quietly munched.

      All of a sudden, the big red barn with its cow-chicken-horse-and-pig-themed wallpaper and bright white-and-red interior grew suspiciously silent.

      “Everything okay?” Travis asked Clara, who’d frozen with the pastry hanging from her mouth. “Are you choking?” In case the word was too big for the little girl, he held his hands to his throat and made gagging noises.

      She shook her head.

      Mike and Libby giggled.

      “You’re funny,” Lincoln said.

      “Thanks,” Travis said, shoulders proudly straightening. This was a tough crowd. “Any idea what’s bugging your sister?”

      Frowning, the boy nodded.

      “Well?” Travis asked, wrinkling his noise at the sudden foul smell. Had Libby or Mike dropped a bomb in their diapers?

      Clara started wailing again, and apparently not wanting to be left out, Libby and Mike joined in.

      “What’s the matter?” Travis shouted above the racket to the little girl.

      “She prob’ly pooped in her pants,” Lincoln said. “She always gets that look and cries when she does ’cause she can’t chew and poop at the same time. Plus, she’s s’posed to be potty trained, so she thinks Mom’s gonna be mad.”

      Sure. Made perfect sense. If you were nearly three.

      “Clara, sweetie,” Travis said, “let’s somehow get you cleaned up.”

      “I want Mooooom-meeeeee!”

      “Waaaaaa huuuuh,” wailed Libby.

      “Argh waaaaaaaa,” cried Mike.

      “You’re supposed to do somethin’,” Lincoln oh-so-helpfully pointed out, looking bored with his hands flattened over his ears.

      Ruff! Ruff! Ruff!

      Travis had to look twice to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. But sure enough, as if he didn’t have enough going on already, all three dogs bounded into the room.

      “How did they get in here?” Travis asked, scooping Libby, then Mike, into his arms while trying to shoo the dogs back out the open rear door. “And how did the door get open?”