Parent Trap

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A M I R A

Four Months Later

"Whoa, girls!" Mom called out with a laugh as she and Dad caught each of us in their arms. It was obvious that neither of us was quite ready for bed yet, either, judging by the excited looks on our faces. "Careful," Mom told us with a smile as she steadied Amila by hugging her around the shoulders.

"Sorry, Mom," she said. "We just wanted to say good night - and to thank you for our amazing gifts! I can't wait to take the new portfolio with me when Daddy and I go to painting class this weekend. Can I still help out with the younger kids?" she asked Dad hopefully.

He laughed. "Are you kidding? I'm counting on you to help keep me sane," he told her with a grin as Amila beamed with pleasure. Dad's classes at the winery had become so popular over the past few months that he had been forced to split the classes up into an elementary group and a teenage group to accommodate everyone who wanted to participate. That actually suited him fine; it was a challenge at times, but he loved what he did, and he derived great joy not only in igniting the same passion for art in the children he taught, but also in having a way to spend more time with Amila.

The owners had been so impressed with his work, drive, and ambition - and the amazing way he interacted with the children - that he had been given a hefty raise about a month after he had started working there.

"Remember, though, Sweetheart, anytime you have any extracurricular events for school, that takes priority over you helping me. I don't want you thinking you have to assist me every weekend if you have something else you want or need to do."

Amila shook her head. "No, it's fine!" she told him. "It won't be a problem until my soccer starts back up again. And I love helping out," she told him.

Dad smiled affectionately at her. "And I love having you there with me."

In fact, presently me and Mom were taking a photography class together at the local community college, and some of my works were going to be displayed soon at a junior art fair there, much like my mom had experienced when she wasn't much older.

Mom nodded. "Well, everyone else is in bed, and it's after midnight. You two need to hit the sack, too, okay? And don't stay up more than half an hour talking; I know how you two are."

We sighed. "Okay, Mom," we repeated as one.

Our parents exchanged a look as Dad murmured, "How do they do that?"

"Okay, off you go," Mom told us as they both leaned down to give us a quick kiss on the cheek. "Love you," she whispered to us as we repeated the same thing to her and Dad.

"Sweet dreams, girls," Dad murmured as he watched us leave.

________________

"You do know we're supposed to be in bed by now?" I pointed out as I watched my sister gulp a half glass of milk and then chomp down on the top of a big, icing-covered, Christmas-tree sugar cookie. I grimaced, "You're never going to get to sleep after eating that!"

Amila snorted. "Watch me! I can sleep through anything. I have an iron stomach; whatever that means," she admitted, wrinkling up her nose. "That's what Mon says to me all the time, anyway. I think it means I can eat whatever I want, when I want."

I huffed. "Maybe now. Just wait until your teenage hormones kick in. Then see what happens!"

Amila glared at me as we heard footsteps coming down the hall. "Now you did it!" she hissed. "One of them must have heard us!"

"Well, I'M not the one who decided on a midnight snack," I pointed out.

"Did I force you to come down here?" Amila pointed out as I huffed in irritation.

Clad, in a mid-length, black-colored robe and bare feet, Mom covered her mouth as she let out a yawn, the events of today finally catching up with her. "I thought I heard voices down here," she told us. "What are you two still doing up this late?"

I gave her a sort of 'duh' look. "We were hungry," I explained simply.

Mom grinned. "I can see that," she observed dryly as she noticed the large plate of Christmas cookies lying on the counter, and the family-size bag of chips that I was holding.

She walked over to grab one of the sugar cookies, biting off a snowman's head as she let out a 'mmm' in appreciation. "This is SO good," she sighed after swallowing. "I love iced sugar cookies!"

"Me, too!" Amila told her excitedly.

"Why does this not surprise me?" came a dry voice from several feet away. We all turned heads to observe Dad standing there barefoot and clad only in pajama bottoms.

Dad grinned over at us in amusement, his arms folded across his chest. "Inerys! You, too?" he teased her, noticing cookie crumbs around her lips. "And all this time I thought Mel got it from me; now I'm beginning to doubt that."

She smiled over at him sheepishly, her eyes twinkling as the man walked over to join us. "I didn't want them to get stale," she maintained. "And then we decided to have a girls' chat."

"I thought you 'girls' were told to go to sleep about an hour ago," Dad pointed out to us, but there was no sting in his words, merely the same sort of amusement that Mom had expressed.

"You'll both be grouchy if you don't get to bed right now, because there will be a lot of people awake early tomorrow to get ready for Christmas lunch. Now say goodnight - for real this time - and get your butts back up in bed."

We both sighed. "Okay, Dad," Amila told him as we walked over to place our trash in the garbage can under the sink, and our glasses in the sink.

"And NO more talking - straight to bed, okay?" Dad added. I opened my mouth to reply, but then shut it again as I noticed the look of finality on his face. I nodded as we walked back over to our parents.

"Hey, you're forgetting something," Mom told us as we turned to walk down the hallway.

We rolled our eyes, but shuffled back over to give her and then Dad a brief kiss on the cheek.

"Good night, girls," Dad told us as we turned to face Mom.

"Thanks for the chat," Mom told us with a smile as we both reached up on our tiptoes to kiss her on each cheek. "Sweet dreams."

We nodded. "'Night, Mom," I told her as Amila repeated the phrase before we finally headed back down the hallway.