wonder if I should go buy my Elsie Jenkins limited edition tan windbreaker now.
I'd probably lie awake each night worrying about it, but my weekdays are a new kind of thoroughly exhausting physical torture. As the twins get to know me more, they want to do more. When I come over, they have lists of all they want to do that day. Lynne says they spend their whole night asking her how to spell words so they can write them down. After three days of "GO 2 PARK" at the top of the list, I get the hint.
Lynne drops us in the parking lot behind the playground. "What time would you like me to pick you up, Marley? I'd like to let the baby sleep a bit. Is one thirty too late?"
"That's fine," I say.
"Let's eat first!" Grace says.
"Dessert first!" Faith says. "Kwee have dessert, Marley?"
"No. We're going to play in the playground for a while, and then we'll have a picnic lunch."
"A picnic?"
"Yes."
"I love picnics."
"Excellent."
And then, at the same instant, like twin bunnies, they take off toward the swings. "Marley! Marley! Push me!" Grace calls.
I walk behind the swings and push Grace. I'm about to push Faith too, but she screams. "Don't! I'm pumping!"
She's a good pumper, too. It took me a long time to get the hang of pumpingâI thought it was just a leg-motion thing. Watching Faith, I see the way she works her whole body and gets the swing rocking higher and higher. Grace bends her legs out/in, out/in, but she doesn't gain any height from it. I give her big pushes.
The girls are calm, concentrating on getting higher, higher. In the quiet I catch the metallic sound of a bat hitting a ball, over and over.
"Push me higher, Marley!" Grace reaches out with her legs, trying to pump. "Higher!"
"You are such a baby, Grace. You always need pushes."
"So what?"
"So you're a baby."
"You are."
Faith is pumping herself even higher than I can push Grace. As Faith's swing nears the top of its frontward arc, she jumps off.
"Whoa," I say, relieved she didn't break her neck. What am I supposed to do if she breaks her neck?
"Bet you couldn't never do that, Baby Grace." Faith takes off to the ladder for the high slide.
Grace is trying not to cry. I push her as high as I can, hoping to cheer her somehow.
I ask, "Do you ever pretend not to hear her? That might really drive her crazy."
"She don't care," Grace says. "Stop me, Marley. I wanna go with Faith now."
I grab the chains and slow the swing. I can't tell if she is really hurt by the things her sister says or if this is just how they are. I'm not even sure it's my business. Shouldn't the parents be dealing with this stuff?
Grace waits until the swing has completely stopped swaying, then steps lightly off. As soon as she hits the ground, though, she is off, racing hard toward her sister.
They meet up at the slide, where they take turns getting up the ladder and then going down the slide a different, goofy way. They do it over and over and over. Down feet-first on their back, headfirst on their side, each trying to outdo the other one for silliness.
I stand on one of the benches to see if I can glimpse the baseball fields from here, but there are too many trees in the way. I sit back and try to pick sounds out. It's impossible, aside from the odd
ping
and general loud shouts. The twins are laughing loud, and the baseball field is too far away.
Faith starts climbing up the slide when Grace is about to go down, and Grace, without a word, starts crying.
"Faith, come on," I say. "You know you go
up
the ladder and
down
the slide."
She gets this look on her face that I've learned the meaning of. If five-year-olds had a good cursing vocabulary, this look would translate to one of the worst words. She just sits in the middle of the slide, one foot touching each side. She is not moving.
Grace decides to go down anyway, and she picks up some speed before banging into her sister. They tumble off at the bottom, hands and feet all tangled. I hear Grace's high-pitched yelp and race
I'd probably lie awake each night worrying about it, but my weekdays are a new kind of thoroughly exhausting physical torture. As the twins get to know me more, they want to do more. When I come over, they have lists of all they want to do that day. Lynne says they spend their whole night asking her how to spell words so they can write them down. After three days of "GO 2 PARK" at the top of the list, I get the hint.
Lynne drops us in the parking lot behind the playground. "What time would you like me to pick you up, Marley? I'd like to let the baby sleep a bit. Is one thirty too late?"
"That's fine," I say.
"Let's eat first!" Grace says.
"Dessert first!" Faith says. "Kwee have dessert, Marley?"
"No. We're going to play in the playground for a while, and then we'll have a picnic lunch."
"A picnic?"
"Yes."
"I love picnics."
"Excellent."
And then, at the same instant, like twin bunnies, they take off toward the swings. "Marley! Marley! Push me!" Grace calls.
I walk behind the swings and push Grace. I'm about to push Faith too, but she screams. "Don't! I'm pumping!"
She's a good pumper, too. It took me a long time to get the hang of pumpingâI thought it was just a leg-motion thing. Watching Faith, I see the way she works her whole body and gets the swing rocking higher and higher. Grace bends her legs out/in, out/in, but she doesn't gain any height from it. I give her big pushes.
The girls are calm, concentrating on getting higher, higher. In the quiet I catch the metallic sound of a bat hitting a ball, over and over.
"Push me higher, Marley!" Grace reaches out with her legs, trying to pump. "Higher!"
"You are such a baby, Grace. You always need pushes."
"So what?"
"So you're a baby."
"You are."
Faith is pumping herself even higher than I can push Grace. As Faith's swing nears the top of its frontward arc, she jumps off.
"Whoa," I say, relieved she didn't break her neck. What am I supposed to do if she breaks her neck?
"Bet you couldn't never do that, Baby Grace." Faith takes off to the ladder for the high slide.
Grace is trying not to cry. I push her as high as I can, hoping to cheer her somehow.
I ask, "Do you ever pretend not to hear her? That might really drive her crazy."
"She don't care," Grace says. "Stop me, Marley. I wanna go with Faith now."
I grab the chains and slow the swing. I can't tell if she is really hurt by the things her sister says or if this is just how they are. I'm not even sure it's my business. Shouldn't the parents be dealing with this stuff?
Grace waits until the swing has completely stopped swaying, then steps lightly off. As soon as she hits the ground, though, she is off, racing hard toward her sister.
They meet up at the slide, where they take turns getting up the ladder and then going down the slide a different, goofy way. They do it over and over and over. Down feet-first on their back, headfirst on their side, each trying to outdo the other one for silliness.
I stand on one of the benches to see if I can glimpse the baseball fields from here, but there are too many trees in the way. I sit back and try to pick sounds out. It's impossible, aside from the odd
ping
and general loud shouts. The twins are laughing loud, and the baseball field is too far away.
Faith starts climbing up the slide when Grace is about to go down, and Grace, without a word, starts crying.
"Faith, come on," I say. "You know you go
up
the ladder and
down
the slide."
She gets this look on her face that I've learned the meaning of. If five-year-olds had a good cursing vocabulary, this look would translate to one of the worst words. She just sits in the middle of the slide, one foot touching each side. She is not moving.
Grace decides to go down anyway, and she picks up some speed before banging into her sister. They tumble off at the bottom, hands and feet all tangled. I hear Grace's high-pitched yelp and race
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