Kid Stuff
I walked to Bob’s house at 5:00. Bob had his coat in his hand when he greeted me. Bob's hair was still wet from the shower, and the smell of his aftershave made my eyes water in the dry mountain air.
I held the spoon to Johnny’s lips. He opened his mouth for a moment, then closed his lips tight. Sticky purple suspension flowed down Johnny’s chin and into the folds of his neck. “Oh, Johnny,” I complained.
I looked down at Lucy while Rebecca wrote out Lucy’s request. “What if Santa can’t get Prince of Egypt guys?” I asked. “What else might you want?” “Nuffing,” Lucy answered and carried her book back to the living room.
“They don’t have enough money to take care of the baby or they’re not married to the baby’s father or they’re very young and don’t know how to take care of the baby at all.”
When you start getting the baby urge, remember the heartburn and the breathlessness and the fact that for six or seven months your husband doesn’t want to touch you with a ten-foot pole. Remember.
At the doctor, Lucy sat quietly and read a book while Dr. Gross snipped the Frankenstein stitches from Johnny’s head. A quick peek in Johnny’s ears revealed an ear infection left over from a cold.
Almost every Thanksgiving, we drove to my grandparents. I remember the excitement as we neared Crown Point, the great arc and half-arc of the old two-lane bridges that carried Ingraham Street over Mission Bay.
While I tried to console the two cranky babies, four-year-old Angela had taken her younger sister Lucy and Adrienne’s two- and three-year-old upstairs to play “Fort.” Every few minutes, I called, “Are you guys doing okay up there?”
I turned Johnny’s shirts into little squares and sorted 57 socks while Jay Leno told jokes and Kevin Eubanks laughed. When Jack and I went up to bed after midnight, we each carried an overflowing laundry basket.