sliding on the wood floor. We’d chase after him, trying to get the hang of it.
He’d get a long slide going, then pretend to crash into the wall, arms and legs flying.
“Kerblam!”
Mom was laughing, but she kept saying, “Be careful!” and shutting her eyes like she couldn’t stand to look.
The babies thought Dad’s stunts were great. By the time the music got to the thunderstorm part, we were all totally whipped up.
Then I slipped and hit the wall.
“Will you
please
take it easy?” Mom said. “I’d hate to be trying to explain this at the emergency room. ‘Gee, officer, we were just teaching the kids how to slam into walls …’ ” She shook her head. “We’d get hauled in for child abuse so fast …”
Get hauled in … I stood up, shaky from more than the crash.
“Your mom’s right,” Dad said, winded. “We better calm down.” He started peeling out of his flannel shirt. “I’m hot!”
“Hot!” Freddie said.
“Hot!” Lucy peeled out of her shirt. Her hair stood up in tufts.
Freddie’s shirt got stuck on his head. He looked like Lawrence of Arabia.
Mom made a face at Dad’s T-shirt. “That should have been in the rag bag six months ago.”
Dad always wears his T-shirts until they have these big holes in them. This one was definitely a prime candidate for my favorite game.
“Mom?” I said with a hopeful look, glad to forget about police officers and school counselors.
Mom pretended to give this serious thought, then she said our special signal words. “Sure could use some new dust rags around here.”
“Yippee!”
Right then the Lone Ranger part of the music started. Dad took off. I followed.
“Now watch this,” I shouted to the babies over the music. “You gotta learn how we do this!”
Dad vaulted over the sofa and I scrambled after him. He was still making noises on the kazoo, trying not to laugh, his eyes wide, his red cheeks puffed out like a picture of the North Wind.
He started up the stairs but I hooked my hand through a big hole in the back of his shirt and yanked.
Lucy and Freddie shrieked.
Dad pretended to fall back down the stairs so the babies could jump on him, too.
“That’s right,” I said, encouraging them. “Just rip! It’s okay!”
In about six seconds that T-shirt was nothingbut a neckband and sleeves with some ropey loops hanging from it.
Dad played beat for a minute while Freddie jumped up and down on his bare back. “Oof! Oof! Oof!” Then he rolled and escaped.
Laughing and shrieking, we took off after him. I was standing on the arm of the sofa, ready to leap off, when Mom yelled, “Quiet!”
The doorbell was ringing.
Dad looked at her. “Who in the heck …?”
It’s not like people just show up on your porch a lot out here in the woods.
Two bounces and I was down, heading for the door.
“Robby, no! Wait just a—”
Too late. I’d already flung it open. Standing on our front porch was Mrs. Van Gent and her husband, in spy-type trench coats!
“Well, hello there, Robby, I—” She stopped and stared at my shredded father.
The needle screeched across the record as Mom killed the Lone Ranger.
“Something tells me,” Mrs. Van Gent said faintly, “there’s been a little mix-up about our dinner.”
Mortified. I’d heard that word. Now I didn’t just know its meaning. I
felt
it. Dad’s red face got three shades redder. For a moment I thought he might do what I felt like doing, which was run upstairs and pull a blanket over my head.
But he hardly missed a beat. He smiled at Mrs. Van Gent, caught his breath, and turned to me.
“Robby,” he said. “Where are your manners? Find the lady a kazoo!”
15
Bellyful of Trouble
“Now you’ve done it!” I yelled at Dad as soon as Mrs. Van Gent and her husband had scurried back to their car.
But Mom and Dad weren’t paying any attention to me.
“I don’t believe it.” Mom sank onto the sofa. “I don’t believe that just happened.”
Dad had this
He’d get a long slide going, then pretend to crash into the wall, arms and legs flying.
“Kerblam!”
Mom was laughing, but she kept saying, “Be careful!” and shutting her eyes like she couldn’t stand to look.
The babies thought Dad’s stunts were great. By the time the music got to the thunderstorm part, we were all totally whipped up.
Then I slipped and hit the wall.
“Will you
please
take it easy?” Mom said. “I’d hate to be trying to explain this at the emergency room. ‘Gee, officer, we were just teaching the kids how to slam into walls …’ ” She shook her head. “We’d get hauled in for child abuse so fast …”
Get hauled in … I stood up, shaky from more than the crash.
“Your mom’s right,” Dad said, winded. “We better calm down.” He started peeling out of his flannel shirt. “I’m hot!”
“Hot!” Freddie said.
“Hot!” Lucy peeled out of her shirt. Her hair stood up in tufts.
Freddie’s shirt got stuck on his head. He looked like Lawrence of Arabia.
Mom made a face at Dad’s T-shirt. “That should have been in the rag bag six months ago.”
Dad always wears his T-shirts until they have these big holes in them. This one was definitely a prime candidate for my favorite game.
“Mom?” I said with a hopeful look, glad to forget about police officers and school counselors.
Mom pretended to give this serious thought, then she said our special signal words. “Sure could use some new dust rags around here.”
“Yippee!”
Right then the Lone Ranger part of the music started. Dad took off. I followed.
“Now watch this,” I shouted to the babies over the music. “You gotta learn how we do this!”
Dad vaulted over the sofa and I scrambled after him. He was still making noises on the kazoo, trying not to laugh, his eyes wide, his red cheeks puffed out like a picture of the North Wind.
He started up the stairs but I hooked my hand through a big hole in the back of his shirt and yanked.
Lucy and Freddie shrieked.
Dad pretended to fall back down the stairs so the babies could jump on him, too.
“That’s right,” I said, encouraging them. “Just rip! It’s okay!”
In about six seconds that T-shirt was nothingbut a neckband and sleeves with some ropey loops hanging from it.
Dad played beat for a minute while Freddie jumped up and down on his bare back. “Oof! Oof! Oof!” Then he rolled and escaped.
Laughing and shrieking, we took off after him. I was standing on the arm of the sofa, ready to leap off, when Mom yelled, “Quiet!”
The doorbell was ringing.
Dad looked at her. “Who in the heck …?”
It’s not like people just show up on your porch a lot out here in the woods.
Two bounces and I was down, heading for the door.
“Robby, no! Wait just a—”
Too late. I’d already flung it open. Standing on our front porch was Mrs. Van Gent and her husband, in spy-type trench coats!
“Well, hello there, Robby, I—” She stopped and stared at my shredded father.
The needle screeched across the record as Mom killed the Lone Ranger.
“Something tells me,” Mrs. Van Gent said faintly, “there’s been a little mix-up about our dinner.”
Mortified. I’d heard that word. Now I didn’t just know its meaning. I
felt
it. Dad’s red face got three shades redder. For a moment I thought he might do what I felt like doing, which was run upstairs and pull a blanket over my head.
But he hardly missed a beat. He smiled at Mrs. Van Gent, caught his breath, and turned to me.
“Robby,” he said. “Where are your manners? Find the lady a kazoo!”
15
Bellyful of Trouble
“Now you’ve done it!” I yelled at Dad as soon as Mrs. Van Gent and her husband had scurried back to their car.
But Mom and Dad weren’t paying any attention to me.
“I don’t believe it.” Mom sank onto the sofa. “I don’t believe that just happened.”
Dad had this
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