by Julia Kent
“Sure...”
“Oldest children are First Pancakes. We’re the ones who get all the attention, but we also get to experience the highest percentage of parenting mistakes.”
“What about middle kids?”
“You benefit from the fact that we are the test subjects. You get parents who know what they’re doing, but we broke them in for you.”
“And the baby?” We both turn and look at Amy, who is sitting at the kitchen table, doing her nails. Thick red nail polish slides easily off the brush onto her middle finger as my nephew Tyler watches, enraptured.
“They’re the spoiled little brats.”
“Mom and Dad let her get away with everything,” I concur.
“And she’s got the gorgeous auburn hair and Dad’s eyes. It’s like the genetic lottery gave her some super advantage,” Carol says, echoing my thoughts.
“Why can’t we just skip straight to having third children? I don’t want to make a bunch of mistakes with my first, and then be exhausted for my second.”
“You guys want three kids?”
I laugh. “I don’t know. Getting pregnant with one would be a good start. I think we’ll have them one at a time and stop when we’re done.”
“Unless you have twins.”
My ovaries seize. “One at a time.”
Jeffrey walks up to me, his face a smile of surprise. “I didn’t know you and Declan were coming!” As he hugs me, I bend down and sniff his hair, a habit from long ago when he was a baby and I huffed his little head. At eleven, he’s closing in on me height-wise, and his hair smells exactly like you’d imagine an obliviously under-showered tween boy’s head would smell.
I smile anyhow. And breathe through my mouth.
He turns away suddenly.
“Where are you going?” I call out.
“To Grandpa’s cave. I’ll bet Declan’s in there, too. We men have to stick together.”
A pained expression crosses Carol’s face, fleeting and deeply emotional. She catches herself and reins it in, but it triggers something in me, a pang I don’t quite understand.
“Carol?”
“Men. We men. He’s so close, Shannon. On his way to being a man. I can’t believe my babies are this big. I still feel like I’m parenting without instructions, but add in the whole male factor, and it’s like parenting in Chinese when I speak Farsi.”
I wrap one arm around her in a half hug. “Don’t make me dab my eyes again.”
“Again? You were crying?”
“On the drive here.”
“Why?”
“Because Declan is going to die.”
Her gasp of shock fills me with insta-guilt. “No, no, it’s not like that. He’s fine. Declan is fine,” I assure her.
Carol turns and gives me a half-glare, half-terrified expression, hand over her heart. “Then what the hell does that mean? Why would you say he’s going to die?”
“We had a talk on the drive here, and I told him it isn’t fair that we’re going to die one day. He’ll probably go before me. He’s older.”
“You two are so weird. Why would you talk about dying like that?”
“Because it scares me.”
“Everyone dies.”
“I know. He said that, too. But I don’t know, you know?”
“There are too many knows in there, Shannon. What are you saying?”
“I love him too much to think about living without him.”
“Yeah,” she says softly. “I can’t say I know how you feel, but I understand. I want to feel that way about someone.” Her voice moves into whisper territory. “For someone to feel that way about me. I’m sorry. But I’m also envious.”
“Envious?”
“You have this incredible bond with him. And you want to think of that bond as lasting forever.” She looks at my belly.
“I do.”
“Hold on to that. You’ll need it.”
“For what?”
“For when it’s three a.m., the baby wakes you up for the ninth time, and you’re nursing in bed and the breast the baby’s not attached to starts leaking everywhere. Then the baby pees through his diaper and you try to wake Declan up, but he snores through the giant wet spot all that creates, and all you want is a glass of water and five minutes of not being a chew toy and milk machine.”
“You have a way of of taking beautiful emotions and turning them into public service announcements.”
“I should work for an advertising agency, shouldn’t I?”
“Or a condom company.”
My eight-year-old nephew, Tyler, runs past us in a panic. “Make it stop! Make it stop!” as a strange sound, like jingle bells, gets louder, coming from the back of the house near the kitchen.
“Hi Ty–”
“Help! Make it stop!” he screams, his words turning into a blood-curdling wail as I hear him thump up the stairs, a door slamming.
“What on earth?” I ask Carol, completely bewildered.
She closes her eyes and sighs deeply. “Puddles,” is all she says.
“Tyler’s developed anxiety about puddles?” Tyler has a neurological language disorder called apraxia, but he also has a high level of anxiety about everyday things. According to his therapists, the two can go hand in hand. Without having the language to explain his feelings, he pitches into a deeply fearful world, so little issues that roll off the average person’s back turn Tyler into a terrified kid.
“No, not puddles, thankfully. I keep forgetting. Mom changed the name. It’s Chuffy now.”
A tiny puppy, all white with pink bows behind her ears, runs past us.
Carol points. “Puddles–er... Chuffy.”
“CHUFFY!” Mom calls out as she comes from the kitchen, her voice high and sickly sweet. “Chuffy-wuffy!”
“Mom and Dad got a dog?” I ask Carol as Mom squeezes by. We really shouldn’t hang out in the hallway, blocking everyone, but then again, you could throw a party for thirty people in a five-thousand-square-foot house and everyone would congregate in the kitchen. We’re avoiding Mom, so the hallway is second best.
“Yes!” Mom answers for her. “And it’s all your fault.”
“My fault?” I squeak.
“You and Declan. All this baby talk makes me miss having someone to nurture.”
“Hey! What am I? Chopped liver?” Dad calls out from the kitchen. I turn and see him holding a plate of steaks and burgers, wearing a grilling apron. Behind him, out the patio door, Declan’s standing next to the grill, chugging a beer in a green bottle, free hand on his hip, casual.
“You don’t count,” Mom sniffs, curling around the banister to walk upstairs.
Tyler is screaming, “GO AWAY, DOGGIE!”
“Mom, please,” Carol begs. “Just grab Chuffy and we’ll work on helping Tyler to desensitize later.”
“Okay,” Mom replies, her simple answer heartbreaking. Mom’s normally the type to try to convince people that if she likes something, they’ll like it–no matter what. With Tyler, the whole family has come together to make sure he gets what he needs, even if it means overriding instinct.
Or, in Mom’s case, personality issues you would think can’t be changed.
Funny how children make you reconsider everything, even who you are and how you define yourself.
Especially who you are and how you define yourself.
“Grandma, I don’t want the doggie!” Tyler shouts from upstairs, making it clear Mom found him. Soothing tones come down the stairs, Mom’s exact words impossible to hear, but the emotion is obvious. She’s calming him down, allaying fears, and doing exactly what we adults are supposed to do:
Lead by example.
“How does she know?” I say aloud, Carol giving me a puzzled look.
“Know what?”
“How to do all this. Mom and Dad raised us. They’re wonderful grandparents to Jeffrey and Tyler. They help you all the time. They’re patient–”
“Don’t mythologize them, Shannon. T
hey weren’t perfect parents raising us.”
“I know they weren’t. Trust me. But they just–act. They do. They always turn toward giving their kids and grandkids attention and love. It might not be what we need, but they’re always giving. And with Tyler, they’ve adjusted so much, kept themselves open to learning.”
“That’s true,” she admits. “I don’t think Tyler would be where he is without their help.”
“So how do they know? Is it some parental instinct that kicks in when you have a child? Like, is there some hormone that’s triggered along with oxytocin when it’s time for the baby to be born? Do we get an injection of a chemical you don’t have until you give birth?”
“That doesn’t make sense for the man, Shannon. Or for adoptive parents.”
“Then what? How do you know how to parent?”
“We’re all winging it.”
“I don’t believe it. It’s too much responsibility to rest on just ‘winging it.’” Carol looks over toward the stairs, her face so much like Mom’s. I know she’s making an important decision: let Mom take care of Tyler, or go and be his mommy. Sometimes we have to let people we love conquer their fears, even if it’s inelegant.
Maybe I should apply that to myself.
In the end, which really only involves a few seconds, Carol decides to let Tyler come to terms with this with Mom’s help. We walk through the kitchen and out into the backyard, where Jeffrey’s on a lounge chair, face stuffed in a sci-fi novel, and Declan is “helping” Dad grill. And by “helping,” I mean lightening Dad’s beer stash.
Mom comes out, holding Chuffy, who is neatly groomed. He’s a bichon frise, a little white cloud of an animal, and her nose strains to smell me, pink tongue out and moving eagerly.
“When did you get Chuffy? And a purebred, at that?” I ask, shooting Dad a look.
He shrugs. “The humane society had a whole litter come in. Found them in an abandoned home. The mama died.”
Sudden tears prick the backs of my eyeballs as I reach for the dog. “Poor baby.”
“She’s the runt. Small for a bichon.”
“She’s my baby!” Mom cries, kissing her head before handing her over.
“It’s bad enough to be replaced by Chuckles, but now I’m fifth in line for Mom’s love,” Amy cracks as she walks out from the kitchen. But she’s laughing.
Mostly.
“My fur babies will never replace my human babies, but I have more than enough love for all of you,” Mom says emphatically.
“Try being sixth in that line,” Dad says under his breath.
“What, Jason?” Mom looks at him as if she’s just discovered he’s here. “Did you say something?”
“No, dear.” Dad turns to Declan with a sad smile. “Take notes, buddy. This is what it’s like once you have kids.” He brushes past me and heads to the kitchen counter, eyes downcast.
Is that a third beer Dec’s opening? I start to walk toward him to rescue my husband from himself when I get a creepy feeling.
I look at my mom.
Because that creepy feeling means that the first person I should look at is my mom.
As usual, instincts are hardwired into us for a reason. Her eyes are glued to my midsection.
“Quit staring at my belly!” I shout at Mom. Dad gives me a guilty look and suddenly becomes very interested in re-arranging grill utensils.
“Sorry! It’s just... it looks a little bigger.” Mom winks at me.
“That’s not from a baby. That’s from lunch. It’s a burrito baby. I’m not pregnant.” Yet.
“We’re just so excited! We haven’t had a baby in the family since Tyler!” Tyler just turned eight. Mom loves babies, but my father adores them.
“We’d love another grandchild,” he says, giving me a quick hug. “Whenever you’re ready. No one has to produce children on anyone else’s timetable.”
Mom looks at him like Where did the alien come from? “Of course it’s their choice. But they’ve chosen! Now we wait. This is just like Droughtlander.”
“You’re comparing my... our... getting pregnant to a television show?” The two of them are blocking me from Declan, who looks like he’s trying to figure out how to escape through the fence using a bottle cap and grill tongs.
“Both involve groups of people making a great product,” Mom starts. “Both involve a long wait. Both involve production elements out of my control. Both involve–”
“Groups?” Dad chokes out. “Last time I checked–and to be fair, it’s been however many years since Amy was conceived–but I’m pretty sure making a baby doesn’t involve a group.”
“Only if you need reproductive technology to help,” I mutter.
“What?” he asks.
“You know. Reproductive technology. Sperm washing and in vitro fertilization, Dad. For some couples, you do need a group. A medical group.”
“Why would you need that?” His perplexed look changes to alarm. “Oh, honey. I’m sorry. Do you two need help?” His voice drops to a whisper.
Declan’s turn to be alarmed. “No, no,” he declares. “We just need time.” Our eyes meet and he telepathically tells me, And to get the hell out of here.
“And sex,” Mom adds helpfully. “Lots and lots of sex.”
“We managed to figure that part out on our own, Marie,” Declan says tightly.
My dad turns pink and ends all eye contact with Declan. “Okay, then. So, how about those Pats?” It’s the off season. The Pats aren’t playing yet, but Declan gets the point.
“See the Sox game?”
“Cora’s killing it.” Dad leads Declan to the man cave before my ears bleed, just as Tyler comes into the yard, eyes tracking Chuffy with vigilance.
“We need to get you a tube of this new stretch mark cream one of my students makes. It has a specially imported Chinese root vegetable that helps skin regrow,” Mom whispers to me.
“Mom, the last time I used something one of your students made, I ended up with a chemical burn on my lips.”
“That’s because she got a bad batch imported from Russia. And don’t worry, honey. I can barely see the scar.”
“Stretch marks? Have you seen mine? They look like giant dehydrated worms attached to my body.” Carol starts plucking at the fabric of her shirt, right over her belly button. She’s pulling little balls of lint off her sweater, but my mind turns them into nightcrawlers. I hold back a gag.
“I’ve seen your belly. The stretch marks aren’t that bad,” I counter.
“Remember that old ‘80s movie Dad likes? Tremors? My belly is basically nothing but those. Oversized worms.”
“You’re comparing the beauty of pregnancy and birth with that? Come on.”
“Shannon, making babies is closer to horror than art.”
“Oh, please.”
She snorts. “You know those old ‘Chucky the doll’ movies Dad loves, too? You know a parent made that series. Guaranteed. A raging, homicidal toddler-sized being? Believable. All it took to get Jeffrey to that point when he was three years old was giving him juice in a green cup instead of blue. Or God forbid if I took him through the bank drive-thru window and they were out of lime-flavored lollipops. Chucky was modeled entirely on a little boy in New Jersey who didn’t get the right toy in a Happy Meal, I’ll bet.”
“You’re comparing a horror movie character who killed people to a precious child?” I had no idea my own sister was so jaded. I know our child won't be like she's describing.
“Seems reasonable,” Dad says, unsolicited, popping back in to grab a bowl of chips and two sodas. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dec lazily kicking a soccer ball back and forth with Tyler in the backyard.
“I used to wonder if Amy was like that child in the Gregory Peck movie,” Mom adds.
“You mean Scout in To Kill a Mockingbird?” I ask, my fingers fluttering to my heart as I choke up with touched emotion. "Aww."
“No," Mom replies swiftly. "Damien. In The Omen.”
“Mom!�
�� Amy gasps. “You’re so paying for that.”
“See?” Mom shrugs.
“How about we eat?” I say faintly. It’s not as if I have an appetite. We just need to fill Mom’s mouth so she can’t keep talking.
“TYLER! JEFFREY!” Carol screams. “Time to eat!”
“We’re right here, Mom,” Jeffrey says. She turns to her left, looks down, and laughs.
“You’re two feet from me.”
“Your memory is as bad as Grandma’s,” he says, shoving earbuds back in, his eyes tracking the words on the page.
“Sure you want kids?” she asks me dryly. “I’ve got a preteen I’ll rent to you half time. No charge.”
“I’d take him in a heartbeat.”
One corner of Jeffrey’s mouth twitches. He heard me.
A confident, warm hand wraps around my waist, fingers playing at my hip. “Hey,” Dec says, smiling at Carol. “I see it’s life as usual here. How’s work?”
“I work for your brother. You really think I’m going to answer that question honestly?”
“If you do, I’ll like you even more,” he says with a smile.
“It’s good. Amanda’s securing a huge new contract for assisted living communities. We’re about to hire a ton of senior citizens for shopper assignments.”
I groan on her behalf. “I’m so sorry.”
Declan frowns, giving me a bemused look. “Why sorry?”
“Old people are the worst to deal with when it comes to customer service evaluation,” I start to explain, but Carol cuts me off with an air of authority I’m used to experiencing as her little sister, but not when it comes to mystery shopping.
“They’re great for timeliness, details and observation, and analysis. But they’re awful when it comes to tech.”
“Tech?” Dec asks.
“You know. Using computers and apps to deliver the questionnaires, pictures, video.”
“Secret shoppers do all that? Video?”
“I was videotaping you when we met in the men’s room of that bagel store Anterdec owned,” I tell him, squeezing his hip nice and hard.