“No, they won’t.”
“Yes, they will.”
“No, they won’t.”
“Yes, they will.”
“Viv, you look like a girl.”
“They’ll see my boy socks.”
“No, they won’t.”
“Yes, they will.”
Viv ratcheted up to full freak-out mode: screaming, tears, and tantrums.
“Vivian? Now.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll look like a boy.”
“No, you won’t. You have long hair,” I said, abandoning logic.
“They’ll think I’m a boy.”
It was at that point I said, “You don’t look like a boy because you don’t have a penis.”
Viv responded, “No one will see that I don’t have a penis.”
Indeed.
And amen to that.
Parenting Tip: When you’re debating with children, abandoning logic will help you win.
Will and Viv survived their first skating lesson. By the fifth lesson, I decided to go watch. Chris assured me that I wouldn’t have to tie any skates, that I could bring a mug of tea into the arena, and that this was entertainment most people would pay for.
We arrived at an urban arena filled with kids attempting to stand upright on two sharp blades, trying not to be the domino that took down the row.
At the first lesson, Chris informed me, the whole class had practiced standing up. Now, I understood why they focused on that skill. Will and Viv were experts at standing up. Let’s just say they’d had a lot of practice.
So, there I was on Saturday afternoon, watching eager kids gather in a circle, shifting and pseudo-listening to their teacher.
In a millisecond, one was down.
“Sniper fire,” Chris said.
I looked at him for an explanation.
“One just got taken out,” he said. “It looks like sniper fire.”
In the time my brain took to process this, he said, “Sniper fire. Another one down.” One moment Viv was standing, the next she was flat on the ice.
Sniper fire amused us for the rest of the lesson. Nothing like laughing at your own kids to make you feel better.
Parenting Tip: Laughing at your children is cheaper than therapy.
That autumn, not only did Viv and Will learn to stand up on skates, they also learned that Mommy likes them to go outside by themselves.
Our fenced backyard was a regulation-size chicken coop for twins. I could open the patio door, send them out, and make a cup of tea. Sometimes I looked out the window; usually I sat in silence. When I was vying for a Parent-of-the-Year nomination, I’d crack open a screen door to add an extra dimension.
One nice fall day, I sent Will and Viv outside so I could read an entire article in the newspaper, something I hadn’t accomplished since the Olympics were in Athens. I think I was three-quarters through the story when I heard a shrill, trip-to-emergency scream. Three bounds later, I located the yeller. It was Viv.
I sat my butt on the grass and dragged her onto my lap. Between shrieks, I managed to hear, “William . . . croquet . . . hit . . . head.”
I looked up and saw Will kicking tufts of grass. He had yet to flee the scene of the crime.
After administering basic first aid, which involved placing a Band-Aid on Viv’s hair, I interrogated the suspect and the victim.
It was at that point I said these words: “Did you hit your sister on the head with a croquet mallet on purpose?”
From confessions and evidence, it appeared that Viv had taunted Will, who reacted by throwing a croquet mallet in the air. Viv’s head got in the way of gravity.
No blood, no concussion, and no more croquet. But with winter on its way, the hockey sticks would soon be out. One word: duck.
The mischief of autumn led to winter, and eventually it spread beyond the fenced area of our yard and to church.
If you ever deceive yourself into believing your children are angels, take them to a small church. Or a mosque. Or any place angel-ly.
If you don’t believe me, here are ten churchy things Will and Viv have done that have made me want to crawl under a pew, curl up into the fetal position, and pray that the Second Coming is imminent—like in the next thirty seconds:
1. During the sermon, Will started playing a loud version of I Spy, the colors version again. He started with “I spy something gray.” It’s an aging congregation.
2. When the choir started singing, Will put both hands over his ears and kept them that way for the length of a concerto.
3. When I led the children’s craft class before the service, Viv asked if she could have more fairies for her cross. “They’re angels,” I said. I looked at Will, who was holding up his stickers. “I know those are dolphins,” I said. “I couldn’t find fish stickers.”
4. Will and Viv had a hockey brawl, fighting over who got to put our money into the collection plate. I got hit with an uppercut.
5. When the pastor asked the children what God looked like, Viv’s hand shot up. “Half man, half woman,” she said. Hermaphrodites R’ Us.
6. After partaking in bread and juice for the first time in communion, Will shouted, “What was that all about?”
7. On another Sunday, Viv returned to our pew after having communion and announced, “Jesus tastes yummy.”
8. The next week, Viv was first up to the communion rail, knelt, and tumbled off in a sideways somersault.
9. While watching a baptism, Will backed up and rear-ended a taller-than-him candle. It was set upright before the entire congregation had to stop, drop, and roll.
10. After saying the Apostles’ Creed, Viv turned to me and asked, “What’s a virgin, Mom?” Rescue me, Madonna.
One particular Sunday, I started thinking about the ancient ritual of human sacrifice. I was willing to volunteer if it got me out of there faster.
Will, after drawing on both me and the pew, started shooting people with his finger gun. Good to know not allowing him to have toy guns has curbed the allure of firearms.
“Will?” I said. “You can’t shoot people in church.”
He grinned. I thanked God we didn’t name him Dexter.
“Please, Mom?” he said. “Pretty please with butts on top?”
“No shooting people in church. Or I’m taking away every toy you’ve ever seen.”
I fake smiled and tried to listen to what the pastor was saying.
“Mom,” Viv whispered. “Look at this.”
She had drawn a picture of me. It was pretty good. She had managed to capture my eyes exactly, including every enlarged blood vessel there was.
“It’s beautiful,” I said.
I started pondering an important religious question: Is sarcasm a virtue or a deadly sin?
I didn’t want an answer to that.
HE PUT THE HOSE DOWN THE VENT AND TURNED ON THE WATER
Because I didn’t vomit enough during pregnancy, I enjoy stomach-churning rides at amusement parks. As a result, when Viv and Will grew tall enough to go on upside-down rides, I told Chris to take a break. He spent hours with the kids; I’d gladly take them for a solo outing to the fairgrounds.
Viv, my partner in stupidity, took to the Drops of Doom right away. Will was wisely cautious. He’d always been the child who’d survive the Zombie Apocalypse. He’d stay away from the undead and create a manual on how to outsmart them using the 932 facts he knew about carnivores; Viv, meanwhile, would convince the horde of zombies to join her in “Ring Around the Rosie” before she ended up as lunch.
“Come on, Will,” I said. “The roller coaster is fun.”
“No.”
“You can see how it works,” I offered.
“No,” he paused, “I wish Daddy were here.”
“I know you do,” I said. “Look, you can sit beside Mommy,” I offered. “Viv will sit with a stranger.”
“Mom!” Viv said.
“Come on, Will. I’ll buy you ice crea
m if you go on this ride with me.”
“A cone?”
“Yes.”
“Any flavor?”
“Any.”
“OK.”
Parenting Tip: Bribery teaches children important life skills. Like bribery.
And so we lined up for longer than Justin Bieber has been alive, climbed into the roller coaster, and got whiplash while smiling. Despite Will’s bug-tooth grin, he never again fell for this bribe.
After Will and Viv enjoyed their cones, we walked to the exit, which meant passing a plethora of games run by underpaid teenagers.
“Can we play this game?” Will asked me, pointing to a game with guns.
“No.”
“Why not?” Viv asked.
“Because you don’t have a gun license.” This is Canada. Parents can harness strict gun laws and use them to control their kids.
“But that girl looks younger than us.”
My eyes followed to where she was pointing. “Her parents know the gun license people. She got a special one after she took a course.”
“Really?” Will asked.
Parenting Tip: Twist the laws of your state or country to get your children to obey you.
I pulled them along by their hands, past the basketball hoop shot, the sledgehammer bell game, and the tent filled with Barney-sized stuffed animals.
Finally, we were through the turnstiles. There was no way back.
When we arrived home, I exiled Viv and Will to the backyard so I could start dinner and not ruin the pizza crust. I had told Chris that I would cook something. Following a recipe that reads “add enough flour so the dough isn’t sticky but not so much that it is dry” was beyond my remedial cooking abilities. I was pretty sure the technical writers of most recipes worked for IKEA in their early years, writing incomprehensible instructions involving Allen keys, grommets, and other Muppet-sounding terms.
Viv entered the house. “Can Abby and Connor come over?”
“No,” I said.
“Why not?”
“Because the last time they were over, Abby got her hair caught in our rope swing, and I had to dial 9-1-1.”
“You didn’t call 9-1-1; you just called her mom,” Viv said.
“She’s my 9-1-1,” I said.
Abby’s dad was a police officer, and her mom was the neighbor who invited me over for wine and informed me about pet stores. That counted as 9-1-1.
“Please?”
“No,” I said. “We’re having pizza soon.”
“You’re cooking?” Will asked.
“Yes.”
“But Dad always cooks,” he said.
“I know he does,” I said. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t do it.”
“Can I help?” Viv asked.
“No, thanks.”
“Why not?
“Because I’m perfectly capable of wrecking this meal on my own, thank you very much.”
“OK.” She bounded towards the stairs with her rubber boots still on.
I started rolling the crust, which resembled the state of Texas.
“Mom?” Viv called out.
“Yes?”
“Come look at me.”
Her voice came from around the corner, the direction of the stairs. I walked over, peeling the flour-dough mixture from my fingers.
“What are you doing?” I asked. She was in some sort of downward dog position on the stairs. Only she wasn’t using her hands.
“I’m climbing the stairs.”
“Stop using your head to climb the stairs.”
Viv giggled. I smiled.
I walked downstairs to our coffin-sized freezer to get some grated mozzarella. If there was anything that made a homemade tough-crust pizza better, it was adding freezerburned, pre-grated cheese.
I retrieved it, came upstairs, and heard a rhythmic thudding-squishing sound.
“What are you doing?” I asked Will. He smiled and ignored my question.
Cradling my Ziploc bag of cheese chunks, I watched him. He held the flour-and-dough-covered rolling pin with his right hand and had taken five oranges out of the fruit bowl. He was banging them.
“Are you playing Whac-A-Mole?”
He grinned and continued his orange massacre, his own home version of carnival games.
“Stop. Now. Upstairs. Room.” I sighed. “Mommy needs a time out.”
He listened. I finished the pizzas, put them in the oven, and cleaned up the carnie-carnage.
Chris came home and gave me a hug.
“You OK?” he said. “Where are the kids?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“You don’t know?”
“Well, they’re upstairs. I just don’t know what they’re doing.”
We heard a thunk. And then some hopping, followed by a thud. We waited in silence for screams that didn’t come. Just the voice of Will. “Mom? I’m bleeding.” I ran
The first thing I saw was blood dripping from Will’s toe onto our beige carpet. Before I could accuse him, he said, “I wasn’t even picking my nails, Mom. I cut it on the vent behind the door.”
“What we’re you doing behind the door?” I asked.
“Trying to listen to you and Dad talk.”
Chris joined us upstairs, surveyed the situation, and shrugged. “I’m going to change out of my work clothes,” he said. “Need any help?”
“No, thanks. I got it. Really.”
I told Viv, who’d already cordoned off the crime scene, to get some tissues. She was out of the blocks faster than Usain Bolt. Then I ordered her to get a Band-Aid.
I returned to Will, sopped up more blood, and found a shallow slice across his baby toe. I got him to sit up so he could bum-scoot to the bathroom, but his toe started bleeding on the carpet again. “Lie down,” I said. Given that Will still remembered some of the dog tricks Chris had taught him and Viv years ago, this was an easy command for Will to follow. I wrapped tissues around his toe again, put my hands around his ankles, and dragged him into the bathroom. Despite the rug burn on his back, he found this more enjoyable than the roller coaster.
Viv came back from her Band-Aid quest with one that Chris had purchased at a garage sale. I was pretty sure it was circa 1948. “It’s the only one I could find,” she said breathlessly. I asked her to get a washcloth. Meanwhile, I let Will bleed onto the linoleum.
Viv returned with a hand towel. “That’s not a washcloth,” I said. She looked at me quizzically. “A washcloth is smaller.” Off she went.
I cleaned and dried Will’s cut, applied ointment, and put on the old Band-Aid, which had lost its stickiness. Will, in true Will form, never complained.
I found a newer Band-Aid at the bottom of a gym bag and applied it. I told Will and Viv that we’d had enough excitement for the day. “Just read some books on your beds until the pizza is ready,” I said.
I left them, paused to look at the carpet, and went downstairs to tweet this: “How do I get blood out of a beige carpet? #FreakingKids.”
Minutes later, I had twelve replies, all saying the same thing: “Peroxide. Now.”
I got peroxide from the first aid cupboard and noticed that Viv had destroyed the childproof lock to get to the Band-Aids. I jogged back upstairs. I dabbed. I scrubbed. I finished removing the bloodstain by the time the smoke alarm sounded. The pizza was done.
Parenting Tip: Justify time spent on Twitter as “researching” what is best for your child. Or your carpet.
The next morning, I tried to imbibe enough caffeine to be coherent. Chris, in his caffeine-less state, went downstairs to ensure everything was in order for my parents’ visit. They were due to arrive after lunch.
While sipping tea and scanning Twitter, I heard Chris yell. “Lee? Can you come here? It’s serious.”
I ran down the stairs and found him in the bathroom. The exhaust fan was hanging down, there was water dripping from it, and both Chris and the floor were soaked.
I stared, dumbfounded.
“Wh
at the heck is this from?” he asked.
My mind raced, trying to visualize the floor plan of the main level. “Maybe the kitchen sink leaked,” I said. “It’s right above.” I bounded up the stairs, doubling my daily exercise quota, and inspected the sink pipes. No leak.
Then I stopped. What was on the outside wall? I wondered.
I ran outside and saw the garden hose lying next to the outdoor exhaust vent that went down to the basement bathroom.
“William!” I screamed as I ran back into the house. He was playing Hot Wheels versus dinosaurs with his peanut-butter-covered fingers.
I assumed my good-cop face, the kind that encouraged kids to confess.
“Yesterday,” I paused, catching my breath, “did you put the hose in the vent hole outside?”
“Yes,” he said, slamming stegosaurus into a pick-up truck.
“Did you turn the water on?” As if I really needed to ask.
“I think so.”
“OK, then. You know that’s not a good idea, don’t you?” Disciplining is not my strength when I’m on holidays from teaching.
“Sorry, Mom. I won’t do it again. I was just doing an experiment,” he said. As I went downstairs to sugar coat the news to Chris, I wondered if the mothers of Benjamin Franklin and Albert Einstein had been committed to asylums.
“Well,” I told Chris, “the good news is that it’s not a leak that needs to be fixed by a plumber.”
Chris wrenched his neck out from under the sink. “What is it then?”
“Not it,” I said, “but who.”
“Will?”
“Yes,” I said. “He put the hose down the vent and turned on the water.”
“He what?
“Yup,” I said. I knew Chris had heard me. “I talked to him about it. It seems he was conducting his own science experiment.”
Chris got up off the floor. “What is this,” he said, “National Euphemism Day?”
I laughed. “You have to admit that science experiment sounds nicer than flooded our basement.”
Chris shook his head.
I continued talking. “Look. At least he turned off the hose. It could have been worse. Like the time he left the hose on for two days.”
“True enough. And there’s no one thousand dollar water bill this time.”
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