Don't Lick the Minivan

by Leanne Shirtliffe

  Evidently all that kindergarten talk about Brontosaurus burgers and Jupiter’s gases had caused Will to grow. Because when he emerged from the crypt, he was dressed as a lion with human legs. The cute fluffy paws, meant to cover his shoes, were mid-shin. It looked even better with gym socks extending past his ankles, leaving a three-inch gap of skin. Vivy, on the other hand, was a princess of sorts. She had put on two Velcro-backed fairytale dresses, both with holes in them, leaving her with a layered look. Add to this mixture her straight hair, which formed dreadlocks minutes after combing, and we had a politically incorrect homeless princess in our presence.

  Thankfully, in our community, no one started trick-or-treating until the sun set. This meant it was harder for people to see how pathetic our kids’ costumes were. Last year, it was a tutu over snow pants. And that was my costume.

  “Here we go,” I said to Chris. “A homeless princess and a lion preparing for a flood. Excellent choice of costumes.”

  “You may wish to sheath your sarcasm sword,” Chris added, kissing my cheek. “It may scare some kids.”

  “I’m good with that,” I said, leaving my husband to hand out candy dressed in what he called his “cranky, middle-aged man” costume.

  HER PUKE RUINED THE NEW CAR SMELL

  Will and Vivy desperately wanted a pet. They would have loved a cat, but Chris is allergic to any fluff ball that meows. So our twins colluded and settled on getting a dog. I tried to avoid this debate about pets, because the odds were pretty even. When Chris was home, it was two against two; when he was out, we might have had quorum, but the dynamic duo of Vivy and Will had a definite majority.

  I didn’t want a dog because I didn’t want more work. I’d already taught two kids not to pee on the floor: been there, done that. I was still working on the don’t-lick-your-plate thing, especially on the rare evenings when we had company. In an attempt to silence the pet issue, I employed the Distant Future Strategy; in other words, I told Will and Vivy they couldn’t get a dog until they were ten years old. I was banking on them forgetting about it over the next five years. That was unlikely, though, given that I first informed them about this arbitrary rule the previous year, and they still remembered. About every second day, one of them said, “I wish we were ten, Mom . . .”

  They’d taken the dog-theme to heart. Not only did they bark and play fetch with each other, but on one occasion I caught Will the Puppy licking his sister’s leg. Apparently, I needed to expand the don’t-lick-your-plate rule to include people. After being licked on the leg, Vivy patted Will’s head and said, “Nice doggie.”

  Parenting Tip: Avoid getting a pet at all costs. If you do, see a psychologist who specializes in masochistic behavior psychosis.

  In their relentless pursuit of getting a dog, Vivy and Will adopted a clever marketing tactic: If you can’t close the big sale, go for a bunch of smaller ones.

  They harped on and on about fish and hamsters. Chris compromised. “I’ll give you half a hamster. If you keep it alive, I’ll give you the other half.”

  The kids looked at him, horror-stricken.

  “How would we get half a hamster?” Will asked.

  “Carefully,” Chris said.

  “Dad, we can’t keep half a hamster alive,” Vivy said, “it’d be dead.”

  “You’re right.”

  Later that day, I sat in my neighbor’s dining room performing yet another community service: neither she nor her husband drank red wine, so when they had some I drank it for them. We talked about pets. They had definite plans to get a dog; I had definite plans to have a second glass of wine.

  When they asked about my no-pet policy, I explained that it wasn’t because I was anti-dog. I loved my childhood mutts; it was just that they were farm dogs, which meant that they didn’t step a paw in the house, we didn’t have to walk them, and we didn’t own a leash. Essentially the dogs took care of themselves and once a week I’d pet them or chase them around the community trying to find out which b*tch they knocked up.

  As I babbled about all this to my neighbor, she poured me a second glass. “Have you taken the kids to the pet store?” she asked. “You know, to play with the animals.”

  I took a sip of my wine. “They have animals there?” I asked.

  She paused, taking her time to refill her own glass with Sauvignon Blanc. “What did you think they sold?”

  I could tell she was reining in the sarcasm.

  “Dog food? Leashes?”

  On Sunday, I drove Will and Vivy to the pet store, which was five minutes away.

  I confirmed that pet stores did indeed have live animals. The kids and I watched a bird squawk, petted a puppy that resembled a Muppet, and explored the aquarium section.

  “Please can we get a fish?” Will asked.

  “No.”

  “Why not?” Vivy said.

  “Look, I told you this a bazillion times before. I can’t even keep a plant alive.”

  “We’ll take care of it.”

  And then I saw it. The writing on the wall. Literally.

  It read: THIRTY DAY FISH GUARANTEE. IN ORDER FOR THE GUARANTEE TO BE VALID, PLEASE ENSURE THAT YOU HAVE THE FOLLOWING WITH YOU: YOUR ORIGINAL SALES RECEIPT, THE BODY OF THE DEAD FISH, SEPARATE ½ CUP OF WATER FROM YOUR FISH TANK. PLEASE NOTE: THE WATER SAMPLE MUST BE SEPARATE FROM THE FISH BODY.

  I laughed. The image of being denied a refund because I had returned the dead fish body in half a cup of fishbowl water was vivid. And plausible.

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  And out we skipped, empty-handed.

  Although pretending to be dogs and keeping decapitated rodents alive might be the talents of some members of my family, they are not mine.

  When I was six, my sister dragged out a tape player the size of a poodle and recorded me hosting a Gong Show–style program. After all, we were farm kids with little to do in the winter. In my own kid version of The Gong Show, I assigned talents to my family members and rated them. My dad’s skill was hammering and he pounded his way to a score of seven out of ten. My brother’s talent was “blowing stinks” (also known as farting); he got gonged, as in big time, wind-up, hit-the-gong-as-hard-as-you-can gonged. Not sure what my sister’s skill was, but it was no doubt pretty good. My mom’s special talent was curling, as in the sport, not her hair (that was what perms were for), and she received a ten. And there you have it, my worldview at age six.

  Every year, tens of people honor Celebrate Your Unique Talent Day on November 24. I asked my twins to share what they believed were the unique talents of each of us. According to Vivy, her talent was drawing cats and flowers, Will was good at silly dancing, and Mommy excelled at loving and cuddling. Daddy, according to Vivy, was good at watching basketball on TV. And she was right: He was good at that as well as at rescuing my attempts to cook.

  Will then weighed in on the debate. He declared that he was good at playing computer games, which was true since he was closing in on Gladwell’s 10,000-hour rule. Vivy, he claimed, was great at playing blocks. He confirmed that watching TV was Daddy’s specialty. As for me? Will said my talent was sitting. Not standing, not sleeping . . . but sitting.

  Somehow we survived the next month. Instead of getting a pet, we opted to spend Christmas with my parents in an RV. It seemed like a good idea at the time, since it was an easy flight to Arizona. Now, before I go any further, I’d like to nominate “an easy flight” as the stupidest term there is. If you have ever flown on a plane with young children (or been on a flight with young children), you know that “an easy flight” is, at best, paradoxical.

  Parenting Tip: If you search “Advice for Traveling with Children,” the number one rule is “DON’T.”

  So, we were on this easy flight, and it was going smoothly. Chris napped in front of a movie. Will was in paradise because when the plane took off, he was able to see what he thought was a combination of LEGOLAND and Hot Wheels from his window. When clouds obstructed his view, he was able to watch cartoons two inches from
his face.

  Vivy, who sat beside me, ignored the TV. In six minutes, she finished her two-week activity package that took me three hours to assemble. She was bored, but not for long. Somewhere over Salt Lake City, a puke-show started in the seat behind her. An eight-year-old girl vomited all over herself, the backs of our seats, and her mom. She continued heaving every ten minutes into a growing collection of barf bags. I gave the mother a sympathetic smile that oozed schadenfreude: I’d been there, but I was giddy that it was her this time.

  Vivy, despite my protests, kneeled on her seat and peered over her headrest so she had an unspoiled view of the throw up fest. When I insisted she wear her seatbelt—a concern for confinement as much as safety—she reclined her seat, sat on one butt cheek, and craned her head so she could peer between the gap. It entertained her until we landed.

  We picked up the rental car, which was the cleanest car we’d ever sat in. I pulled out my folder of Google maps that was the size of Shakespeare’s complete works, and Chris started driving. Before long, we were on the interstate heading to Yuma. We cruised along, stopping only to buy some fine Mexican cuisine at a gas station.

  The drive was going well, too well. And then I heard those infamous five words.

  “I’m going to be sick.”

  “No. Don’t. Wait. Hold on,” I pleaded as I looked for a receptacle, anything. I emptied out a shopping bag, turned around, and kneeled on my seat, twisting my seat belt into a noose.

  Too late.

  Puke was everywhere: on Vivy’s clothes, in her hair, on the plush seats. Upgrading to get the leather interior would have been prescient, I thought. My momentary regret was interrupted by Vivy sobbing and Will screaming, “Gross!” I joined the noisy fray and yelled at Chris to pull over.

  “There’s nowhere,” he shouted over the chaos.

  “Anywhere. An off-ramp. A freaking cactus.”

  Many sticky minutes later, he found an off-ramp. We got out, Chris grabbed some clothes from a suitcase, and I undressed our gooey daughter. I momentarily smirked because I’d brought a roll of paper towels; never before had I been this prepared for cleaning puke off a naked five-year-old on an Arizona interstate.

  Chris threw Vivy’s soiled clothes on a cactus. “We’re not taking those with us.” I knew this tone; it was the nonnegotiable one.

  I grabbed more paper towels and started to clean the car seats. “Her puke ruined the new car smell,” I announced. When I finished collecting chunks of regurgitated soft tacos, I gave Vivy a hug and a plastic bag.

  “Don’t stick your head all the way in it,” I cautioned.

  Parenting Tip: Never travel without a Vomit Survival Kit. Ensure it includes Xanax.

  DID YOU ACTUALLY LICK THE TIRE?

  I wiped my hands on my pants, climbed back into the rental car, and took attendance.

  “Will?” I asked. I craned my neck in the direction of the vomit smell and saw an empty booster seat. “Where’s Will?”

  Chris looked in the backseat, questioning my ability to conduct a search and rescue operation in a sedan.

  “He’s not in here,” Chris said.

  I comforted Vivy, who was not upset about her MIA brother as much as she was her soggy stuffed dog. Holding her hand did little to console her.

  Chris exited the vehicle to expand his search field.

  Through the car window, I heard him address Will in loud muffled tones. I made out the words “disgusting” and “germs,” two terms that cover 95 percent of childrearing topics.

  I let go of Vivy’s hand.

  “What happened?” I asked as testosterone reentered the vomit sphere.

  “Will was licking the tire,” Chris said, reaching for the collection of antibacterial products he’d already unpacked in the glove compartment.

  I twisted my neck to look at Will, who was struggling with the seatbelt.

  “Did you actually lick the tire?”

  “Yes,” he said. He had not yet learned the art of lying, blaming his sister, or farting to draw attention away from the real issue at hand.

  “Why?” It was my favorite question to ask rhetorically, in a half-prayer, half-swear manner.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you pee on it, too?” Chris asked.

  “No.”

  I heard the seatbelt click.

  “Let’s go before we have to deal with another bodily fluid,” I said.

  Chris put the car in gear and merged back onto the interstate.

  We arrived at the RV park none too soon. Vivy’s stomach was churning, Will was bored with my count-the-cacti game, and Chris was tired of driving with his head stuck out the window to avoid the smell of puke.

  We stopped at the security gate. A septuagenarian with a clipboard limped to Chris’s window. I was pretty sure we’d just arrived at Springfield’s Nuclear Plant and were being greeted by Mr. Burns himself. Homer was nowhere to be seen.

  “Where are ye headed?” he asked.

  We handled this question like we handled every customs line up and security checkpoint since we’d started dating a decade ago. Chris stayed silent; I talked.

  “We’re visiting my parents,” I said.

  Mr. Burns raised his eyebrows. I volunteered more information, too much as was my habit. I told him the names of my parents, where they were from, how we were not staying with them but my mom’s cousin who’d gone back to Canada for Christmas. I offered to sketch our family tree on his clipboard, but retches from the back seat distracted me. It was Will, who was either imitating his sister or coughing up a fur ball from licking the upholstered seats. Vivy slept.

  Mr. Burns unleashed his weapon from a holster. He was packing a walkie-talkie.

  He peppered us with more questions than we had at passport control.

  Finally, he let us through with instructions to return to the office the next morning and fill out some IRS-looking forms in triplicate.

  Mom and Dad’s pre-lit palm tree leaned against their RV. We had arrived. We unloaded and I asked for the three things college students request after a night out: a bathroom, a bucket, and a beer.

  Mom grabbed a pail and then cradled a gray-looking Vivy in a lawn chair.

  Dad handed me a beer.

  “I’m hungry,” Will whined.

  “I bought cheese sticks and yogurt,” said Mom. “They’re in the fridge.”

  I walked into their movie star RV, used some of my burglary skills to open the locked fridge, and brought Will a snack he’d eventually vomit up.

  I sat down next to my dad, tossed Chris a Coke, and took the first sip of the beer I’d been cradling for the past five minutes.

  We recounted the vomit fest and the negotiations that took place at the front gate. Vivy stirred, groaned, bolted upright. While still talking, I grabbed the pail and caught her puke.

  I was on my way to dump the pail when I saw Will once again exploring his environment with his senses, something encouraged by his kindergarten class.

  “Will you stop licking yogurt off your glasses?” I asked.

  Somehow, we survived the Arizona puke-a-thon. We were all healthy for the flight home, but as good guests do, we left a gift for our hosts. My enduring memory of saying goodbye to my parents in their RV was of my mom hugging me as my dad speed-walked to the bathroom, leaned over the minitoilet, and hurled his breakfast into the sewer. We shared everything.

  Hours later, after enjoying a puke-free flight, we arrived home. The week progressed, and the few cardboard dinners I prepared reminded my family that it was a blessing that Chris cooked most of the time. It wasn’t long, though, until we had another food escapade.

  When healthy, Vivy—a.k.a. Princess Squirm-a-Lot—was incapable of remaining still for anything as mundane as a meal. She didn’t sit on her dining room chair as much as use it as a pommel horse, a move she’d perfected in utero. On the chair, she squatted, stood, pivoted in a series of practiced moves, plopping down onto her chair for a rest.

  “Tie yourself
to the chair, Princess Squirm-a-Lot,” I said, as Chris doled out our favorite meal: mystery-meat-on-a-stick fresh from the barbecue. Chris is one of those men who enjoy barbecuing in all weather. The snowier, the better.

  Vivian ignored my request. Soon, she wriggled from side to side and front to back over the surface of the chair like she was a gymnast whose score depended upon covering all four corners of the mat. And like the best gymnasts, she sometimes stumbled out of bounds. She was in the midst of informing us which of her kindergarten classmates had been naughty. Dishing out the dirt on other five year olds was a practice we encouraged as it reminded us that other people’s children misbehaved too.

  “If Toby pushes one more student,” she said, “the teacher’s going—”

  Parenting Tip: Encouraging your children to gossip about their classmates will make you feel better about your own parenting skills.

  And poof, she was gone. She’d fallen out of bounds, off the chair. Picture the scene from Looney Tunes where Wile E. Coyote sends an anvil hurtling off the cliff heading for the Road Runner, and you have a sense of the speed at which she fell. The sound of skull meeting ceramic tile gave way to a pregnant moment of silence; then a scream was born.

  On cue, Will was off, a sprinter out of the blocks. Before she could crawl back onto the chair and reach for another cube of meat, he presented a stuffed animal. “Don’t worry, Vivy,” he said. “I fall off chairs all the time.” It was a lie, the kind I liked. Maybe there was hope, at least for the children.

  DO YOU WANT TO COME TO STRIPPER BARBIE’S FUNERAL?

  January marched on like a polar bear stalking its prey. The snow kept falling; Chris kept barbecuing. By the last week, I’d had it, frustrated with temperatures that required I plug in my van, that froze my eyelashes together, and that stuck kids’ tongues to bus windows.

  Feeling cabin bound, I took the kids to an office supply store to get a wireless router. Maybe, I thought, I’d feel less captive in my house if I could roam freely with my laptop, not held hostage by a cord in Chris’s office, surrounded by his tacky collections. If the cold didn’t do me in, then the fake gorilla skull, Communist propaganda, or can of alligator meat might.