dropping such a bomb. But not anymore. We've had enough surprises for one week.
“With Brandt!” shouts Eric.
“Yes.” My voice is calm. I'm too overwhelmed to get wound up about anything.
“And you let her just
leave?”
“What was I supposed to do? Throw Lillian's potty seat around her neck and tie her to the playpen?”
“This is just great,” says Eric. “What about school?”
“They have schools up there,” I state the obvious, though not in a sarcastic way.
“What about
you?”
he asks. “You can't possibly manage all this by yourself.” He collapses into a kitchen chair and exhales like a bear. “That's it—I can't go back to school this afternoon!”
I crumple into the chair across from him. “You have to goback, for a lot of reasons. If Mom doesn't get better I don't know how we're all going to afford to live past next year. The checking account is down to nothing. Ten thousand is owed to the credit union and there's forty-three thousand left to pay on the house!” I've found that suddenly I do have the energy to become agitated.
“Well you can't take care of seven kids by yourself!” says Eric.
There's a crash in the next room followed by the sound of glass splintering. This serves to indicate that Lillian, who tends to operate on the theory of sustained attack, has thrown a toy out of the playpen and managed to lodge a direct hit. I know right away it was the picture of Mom and Dad that I was looking at the other night and forgot to put back on the mantelpiece. Because the house is completely childproof—compliments of the children themselves—anything the least bit fragile was either broken or stored away a long time ago, except for Mom's decoupage projects. We have plenty of backups if those get ruined.
“Aunt Lala is making her reservations to go home as we speak,” says Eric. “Uncle Fred called her cell phone while we were in the car. Our cousin Marci dyed her hair purple and is threatening to get a tattoo.”
“Let's face it Eric, Louise wasn't exactly a huge help to begin with. When she's not at school or cheerleading, Louise is off with her friends. She's always despised baby-sitting. You know that. And … and …”
“And what?” asks Eric.
Only his frustration at this recent turn of household events keeps me from saying it—that maybe it's better, at least for her. And that if Louise were a boy we might not even be having this discussion: Would a brother be expected to completely change his life in order to help care for younger siblings?
“Dad would kill her if he were here.” Eric states the obvious. “Living with some guy and she's not even sixteen.”
“Three more weeks,” I say. “Besides, from the conversations I've overheard it's safe to say that Brandt's more interested in string theory than sex.”
“Well, Mom is going to have a fit about this when she's better, and I only hope she doesn't blame us,” continues Eric. “Don't say anything when you go to visit her!”
“I won't. But I'd better leave now if you're going to catch the bus at four. I mean, Aunt Lala …” I roll my eyes to indicate that she's not exactly able to keep track of the entire brood on her own. And we don't even bother to mention big gruff Uncle Lenny in the context of child care. He drinks three beers with every meal, which is apparently nothing, because according to Uncle Lenny, every sailor in Admiral Nelson's navy was issued eight pints of beer a day
by law.
The moment Uncle Lenny drains a can he crushes it in his hand like a Dixie cup, shouts, “Tide's gone out!,” and pops open another. Meantime he tells the kids to eat their broccoli because “it will help to grow hair on their chests like stalks of rhubarb.” In fact, with that wild white mane and walrus whiskers I'm surprised they didn't try to keep
him
at Dalewood. Retired seaman or local madman? A close call on the basis of looks alone. And when he starts talking about cooking up some snake and pygmy pie
“With Brandt!” shouts Eric.
“Yes.” My voice is calm. I'm too overwhelmed to get wound up about anything.
“And you let her just
leave?”
“What was I supposed to do? Throw Lillian's potty seat around her neck and tie her to the playpen?”
“This is just great,” says Eric. “What about school?”
“They have schools up there,” I state the obvious, though not in a sarcastic way.
“What about
you?”
he asks. “You can't possibly manage all this by yourself.” He collapses into a kitchen chair and exhales like a bear. “That's it—I can't go back to school this afternoon!”
I crumple into the chair across from him. “You have to goback, for a lot of reasons. If Mom doesn't get better I don't know how we're all going to afford to live past next year. The checking account is down to nothing. Ten thousand is owed to the credit union and there's forty-three thousand left to pay on the house!” I've found that suddenly I do have the energy to become agitated.
“Well you can't take care of seven kids by yourself!” says Eric.
There's a crash in the next room followed by the sound of glass splintering. This serves to indicate that Lillian, who tends to operate on the theory of sustained attack, has thrown a toy out of the playpen and managed to lodge a direct hit. I know right away it was the picture of Mom and Dad that I was looking at the other night and forgot to put back on the mantelpiece. Because the house is completely childproof—compliments of the children themselves—anything the least bit fragile was either broken or stored away a long time ago, except for Mom's decoupage projects. We have plenty of backups if those get ruined.
“Aunt Lala is making her reservations to go home as we speak,” says Eric. “Uncle Fred called her cell phone while we were in the car. Our cousin Marci dyed her hair purple and is threatening to get a tattoo.”
“Let's face it Eric, Louise wasn't exactly a huge help to begin with. When she's not at school or cheerleading, Louise is off with her friends. She's always despised baby-sitting. You know that. And … and …”
“And what?” asks Eric.
Only his frustration at this recent turn of household events keeps me from saying it—that maybe it's better, at least for her. And that if Louise were a boy we might not even be having this discussion: Would a brother be expected to completely change his life in order to help care for younger siblings?
“Dad would kill her if he were here.” Eric states the obvious. “Living with some guy and she's not even sixteen.”
“Three more weeks,” I say. “Besides, from the conversations I've overheard it's safe to say that Brandt's more interested in string theory than sex.”
“Well, Mom is going to have a fit about this when she's better, and I only hope she doesn't blame us,” continues Eric. “Don't say anything when you go to visit her!”
“I won't. But I'd better leave now if you're going to catch the bus at four. I mean, Aunt Lala …” I roll my eyes to indicate that she's not exactly able to keep track of the entire brood on her own. And we don't even bother to mention big gruff Uncle Lenny in the context of child care. He drinks three beers with every meal, which is apparently nothing, because according to Uncle Lenny, every sailor in Admiral Nelson's navy was issued eight pints of beer a day
by law.
The moment Uncle Lenny drains a can he crushes it in his hand like a Dixie cup, shouts, “Tide's gone out!,” and pops open another. Meantime he tells the kids to eat their broccoli because “it will help to grow hair on their chests like stalks of rhubarb.” In fact, with that wild white mane and walrus whiskers I'm surprised they didn't try to keep
him
at Dalewood. Retired seaman or local madman? A close call on the basis of looks alone. And when he starts talking about cooking up some snake and pygmy pie
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