Chapter 12
Mom gave birth to Doodie that December. She finally got to name a daughter Christy Ann and she was delighted; however, we never once called her that. We had given her the nickname Scootie when she started scooting across the floor but she wasn’t able to say it. She would refer to herself as Doodie and one day it stuck. She was our Doodie.
Doodie was a planned baby. Mom and Larry had sat us kids down one night after dinner and told us they were pregnant. We knew they were trying and we were horrified at the thought of another person in the house. Katie threw herself down half a flight of stairs when she found out, wailing of course. I say half a flight because we lived in a tri-level so it was only about six steps to the landing, but I’m sure it hurt. I was disgusted at the thought of Mom and Larry doing it, and also because there would be one more person sharing the bathroom. “Another baby will bond our family,” Mom said. I didn’t believe her.
Mom was fairly happy throughout the pregnancy. I’m not sure why because I had heard pregnancy was the pits, but Mom handled it well. She didn’t give up smoking, but she insisted she had cut down. I didn’t believe her, though she may have been telling the truth because she put on a lot of weight. Doodie ended up being a ten pound baby which may not sound like a lot but coming out of a woman under five feet tall it’s quite a feat. So much so that Mom had to have her first C-section after giving birth naturally three previous times.
I had a cold on December eighth, the day Mom delivered Doodie, so I had to wear a mask to go see them. As soon as I saw her lots of ice instantly melted off my heart. I couldn’t hold her that day but I still fell in love in a heartbeat. Luckily the other kids felt the same. We all had a new focus—the baby.
Mom was right about a baby bonding the family. The fighting decreased for a while and everyone had a spring in their step. Doodie never cried much which made her all the more loveable. I couldn’t wait to get home after school so I could play with her, dress her up and just be in her presence. Mom was thankful she had so much help and didn’t need to cut down on her cigarette or coffee time at all. She didn’t even seem to mind that Doodie called me “Mom” more than once. Part of me loved it and part of me felt guilty, worrying that Mom’s feelings would be hurt. Whenever she said it I always corrected her.
Doodie started crawling at a very young age. By seven months she was moving around the house pretty well. It was hard to catch her once she got going but she never got into much mischief. Well, until I taught her how.
One afternoon I was changing her diaper on the floor in the living room. Out of the corner of my eye I happened to notice Larry’s wallet on the edge of the breakfast bar. No one was around so I ran over to grab it while Doodie was still lying on the floor. I hadn’t seen Larry change many diapers and I wondered why. It irritated me, not that I minded helping Doodie, but why was I changing so many of these things? Her number twos were stinky, probably from all the breast milk. I gave the wallet to Doodie to occupy her while I was putting a new diaper on her. This time it was just a number one so I was relieved.
Doodie had pulled out Larry’s driver’s license and was trying to eat it. Once her new diaper was on I conveniently showed her she could stuff things in it, like her daddy’s license. She was fascinated, and I could tell she wondered why she hadn’t realized sooner that her diaper was a pocket, of sorts. She proceeded to empty the contents of the wallet and stick everything in her diaper: a five dollar bill, some business cards, and a few phone numbers on torn pieces of paper. When she was finished she dumped the wallet and scooted away. I was excited about her next diaper change and would make sure it wasn’t from me.
As luck would have it later that afternoon little Doodie laid a huge brick in her Huggies. What was even better was that Larry had the honor of changing it. God does hear prayers, I thought as I heard the commotion in the family room. Now the hardest part was going to be acting innocent and surprised at the news of a seven-month-old expert thief among us.
“Do you know anything about this?” Larry asked, as he held up his poop-smeared driver’s license.
“What happened?” I really wasn’t much of a liar but I was a prankster and that somehow made fibbing okay
“Doodie emptied out my wallet and put everything in her diaper. I’m sure she didn’t do that on her own.”
“Oh come on. No one would give your wallet to Doodie. Plus, she’s pretty smart. I guess she figured out she has a place to put things.”
“Well, she is a smart cookie,” Larry agreed. No one could ever get mad at Doodie. She was easygoing and smiled all the time. She smelled like baby which was even better than the puppy smell. She also loved to cuddle. She was a living, breathing, baby doll.
It didn’t take long for the other kids to come out and roll on the floor when they saw Doodie had pooped on a five dollar bill. No one outwardly suspected me since I was Oscar-worthy for keeping a straight face. Later that night I couldn’t take it and I told Punky.
“Hey, you know the whole wallet thing?” I whispered. “It was me.”
“I kinda figured,” she said. We had a nice sister giggle. The great thing was I could always trust Punky to have my back. She never once ratted me out and it was soothing to have that one person you could trust, even if she was only seven.
Mom always had a lot of anxiety but after Doodie was born she experienced post-partum depression. She was tired all the time and struggled to get out of bed. She was snapping at Larry and us kids for everything. She was zoning out more and more, and smoking up a storm. Mom’s obstetrician, Dr. Harlan, referred Mom to her husband, a psychologist named Donald, to help her deal with her anxiety and depression. Donald started seeing Mom once a week for therapy and also sent her to his office partner, Dr. Robertson, a psychiatrist, who prescribed Mom a nice cocktail of Ativan and Klonopin. I know because once she started taking them she said their names on a daily basis. “I need an Ativan,” or “Shit, I’m out of Klonopin.” These medications became staples in our house much like the Pepsi and Entenmann’s Mom still bought weekly.
Mom had a crush on Donald. She talked about him nonstop and when she did she had a wistful look in her eye, like a schoolgirl in love. I saw that look on my friends all the time so I knew it well. I knew Donald because more than once I wound up sitting in the waiting room while Mom had her session. Once Mom forced me to have a session with him because she thought I was becoming mouthy and defiant. They spent the entire fifty minutes taking turns yelling at me and telling me I was going down the wrong path. He was irritated with me, but then again I think he had a thing for Mom too. She was still beautiful even though she had put on weight and Mom could make any man fall for her. Who knows what they were really doing on that couch?
Mom’s behavior seemed to get worse after she began treatment. I don’t know if it was a combination of bad therapy mixed with the drugs but throughout my teen years I watched her steadily decline. Mom talked about her past in therapy because she always brought it up in times of stress.
“Donald says I wasn’t ever loved as a child, which is why I need these pills now,” she told me. “Smoking helps reduce anxiety,” was another one of her favorites. Why didn’t Donald ever tell her to take a walk? Go to an ashram? Read a fucking self-help book? Mom did have her art and she was damned good too, until the pills zoned her out too much and she couldn’t finish a painting. Her skill also declined and paintings started to look more Dali-esque over time, with strange characters painted randomly in the corner of the picture. I was pissed because it was one of her only skills and I was actually proud to show my friends her work, even though she painted lots of nudes which I thought were inappropriate for a mother to be doing.
* * *
“Sparrow, I have a question,” Mikey said as I entered his room. He was still in his bed (having just awakened) and had called me in as I was headed to the bathroom. Mikey went back and forth between living at Dad’s and living with us. He could never make up his mind about where he wanted to be
and both parents bribed him with toys, electronics, and the like. This month he was living with us.
I was curious about his question because Mikey never spoke to me unless it was to say something mean or derogatory. At twelve, he was finally evolving out of his all-out meltdowns (thank God) but had replaced this behavior with nonstop teasing and harassing. Anyone in his line of sight was a target. Even the poor dogs.
Mikey teased me about my “big, fat pooper” at least once a day.
“God, Sparrow, look at that big fat pooper! It’s so huge! No one’s ever gonna ask you out with that thing. How do you get through life with such a fat pooper?” He went on and on and cracked himself up until I finally backhanded him or chased him out of the room. Mikey also teased me about my flat chest, how I got a C in a class once, and how I inherited Dad’s crooked toes. More than once he referred to me as “Lumpy Toes” and he would grab at them if I wasn’t wearing socks.
“What is it?” I sat at the foot of his bed.
“How come when I wake up in the morning my underwear is sticky?” he asked, careful to avoid making eye contact. I was briefly stunned by this question, but it didn’t take me long to think on my feet and I immediately saw an opportunity for some comeuppance regarding the relentless teasing I experienced on a daily basis.
“Oh...” I said, looking down, trying to be dramatic.
How fun, my brother is having nocturnal emissions.
“What? What is it?”
How fun is this going to be.
“Well, it means you’re getting your period,” I said, completely straight-faced.
“That’s not true! Only girls get periods!”
“Well, actually that’s not true. Boys get them too only they are too embarrassed to talk about them.”
“Really? Oh.”
“This is exciting!” I continued. “This means you’re becoming a man.” With that he perked up a bit.
“So what do I do?” he asked. His eyes were big and he reminded me of a baby bird. For a second he looked so innocent and sweet. I almost told him I was kidding, but then I remembered my big fat pooper, and how he teased me about my period.
“Well, you should go get some of Mom’s pads and start wearing them to school in case you get it. You don’t want to have a mess in your pants and bleed on the carpet like I did, do you?”
“No!” he cried and with that he had jumped out of bed and dashed into the bathroom. I guess he figured it out because I didn’t have to explain how to use them. Mom, incidentally, used the largest maxi pads on the market. Today they are called Depends but back then they were just gigantic, industrial-strength pads the size of your forearm. I had resorted to using one when I had run out of my own pads and I remember it being so large that when I sat down it felt like I was sitting on a cloud only it wasn’t at all comfortable and it went right up my butt. But Mikey didn’t know the difference.
Every day I checked in with Mikey when he got home from school.
“So, did you get it?”
“Not yet, Sparrow,” he replied, excited about the thought of getting a period. I wondered if it had something to do with being in love with that pink bike years ago but I didn’t dwell. I was having way too much fun.
A week later Mom was in the bathroom one afternoon and called out, “Who is using all of my pads?” Before I could speak Mikey piped up.
“Me, Mom. I’m getting my period and I want to be prepared.”
“Sparrow!” Mom was none too pleased upon hearing about Mikey’s journey into womanhood. How did she know this would involve me? “How long have you been wearing pads?” Mom asked Mikey.
“All week, Mom. It could come at any moment.”
I was in my room on my bed in a hysterical fit of laughter. I laughed so hard I hyperventilated. I cried giant, happy tears of vengeance and nothing was going to take them away.
“You’re grounded!” Mom stormed into my room which was right across the bathroom so she only had to stomp her feet three times.
“That’s okay, it’s so worth it,” I replied when I could speak.
“Your brother’s going to be screwed up and it will be your fault!” Even that guilt trip couldn’t quell my laughter. If Mom couldn’t tell how screwed up Mikey was by now then she was crazier than I thought. There was no way I was taking the blame for that mess.
Mom decided she should address my brother’s wet dreams and his entrance into puberty by asking Larry to “give him the talk.” Later she regretted it.
After dinner one night Mom asked Larry if he had talked to Mikey.
“Yeah, I handled it,” he replied as if he were saying “Yes, I took out the trash.”
“Well, what did you say?”
“Not much. I took him into the bathroom and showed him how to put on a condom.”
“What? Why on Earth would you do that?”
“Don’t you want him to practice safe sex?” It was obvious he thought he had done the good deed of the century.
“He’s only twelve, Larry, I don’t think he was ready for all of that. Did you give him any advice at least?”
“Sure. I told him not to use the condom on Damon,” Larry replied, laughing like crazy. Damon was Mikey’s best friend who lived across the street. They hung out all the time and were always getting into some kind of mischief together.
“Dear God.” Mom sighed, rolled her eyes and lit a cigarette. Even I felt bad for Mikey at that point. His only birds and bees talk was Don’t be gay. It looked like I was going to have to handle that one too.
That spring Mom decided to take us to Disney World for spring break. Doodie was three now and Mom thought she was old enough to enjoy meeting the princesses. Larry was gearing up for his spring season but he decided he would come on the trip with all of us first. I was less than thrilled.
As luck would have it Mikey had fractured his ankle doing jumps with Damon on their bikes a month before. By this time Mikey had upgraded from the pink Huffy to an actual boy’s BMX bike, however I think having the tough bike made him take extra risks and he ended up with some pretty good injuries.
I was excited to spend some time in Florida because Mom said we were going to Daytona Beach where you could actually drive your car on the sand near the water. I was also looking forward to seeing Doodie’s reaction to all the Disney characters and I wanted to take her on some rides. She had stopped calling me Mom by this point but we were still close and I thought she was the most precious thing on the planet.
Mikey got his cast off a day or two before we left. He wasn’t able to put much pressure on his leg so Mom got him crutches to take on the trip. I just knew it wasn’t going to go well, with his total lack of resiliency combined with his frequent whining. I decided I would keep my Walkman with me at all times and do my best to ignore him.
I was right about Mikey whining. His foot hurt a lot and he was letting everyone know. It made him more whiny in general—it was too hot, or too cold, or he didn’t like his food, and on and on. The sucky thing about going on vacation with your family is that you are trapped with them. Larry was trying his best not to react, but I could see the steam seeping out of his ears. I had sneaked a few cigarettes in my suitcase for the trip and thought I probably didn’t pack enough. I wondered how Larry had never taken up smoking, but then I remembered he had his own vice and her name was Little Debbie.
Things were tense but manageable the night we got in. I was disappointed at the choice of our run-down hotel, where everything was decorated in brown and industrial orange. It had a pool and that was all I really cared about, but I did search the bed for bugs every night before I got in, which I always did after getting bit by a spider a few years back. The doctor said the spider had probably crawled into my bed because I was bit on the back of the leg and I didn’t recall it happening. This wasn’t any ordinary spider bite either. It was the size of a silver dollar and I had to keep a bandage on it because it oozed pus. Mom had to take me to the local doctor several times to have it cleane
d and bandaged, which was painful and disgusting but at least she wasn’t dragging me back to Dr. Wexler so I felt relatively safe. She had said to be thankful that the skin wasn’t turning black because people sometimes lose body parts from spider bites. Her comment triggered an instant full-on spider phobia. I’m sure she didn’t mean for that to happen; she was just making conversation.
I was truly looking forward to the next day since we were going to Magic Kingdom. I forgot how long it took Mom to get ready for anything, especially because even on vacation she wanted to sit for hours and make love to her coffee and cigarettes. Larry was irritated but still holding it together. He was more laid back when he was out of his environment, and he had not made a single comment about us not being his kids and having to pay for things. Perhaps he was seeing Dr. Robertson now as well and had gotten on some new state-of-the-art, heavy duty, mind-altering, solve all your problems antidepressant. I was beginning to enjoy seeing his face stay the same shade of normal-person flesh.
I should have known something was up because things were going so smoothly. Soon after we got to the park Mom dropped the bomb. “Your brother is going to have to be in a wheelchair all day because of his ankle and you need to push him.”
No wonder the mutants were being so nice to me! And by nice I mean they weren’t yelling or screaming or threatening to cut me open and sell my kidney on the black market to pay for all the electricity I used when I forgot to turn off my bedroom light. Fuck. Fuck shit! I was a high schooler now and I was sure there was some clause in the instruction manual that said I was exempt from pushing my loser of a brother in a wheelchair at Magic Kingdom.
Riding Standing Up Page 9