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There is three feet of snow on the roof and medium-sized icicles hang from the edge. The three-day forecast includes temperatures above freezing.
With a heavy sigh, I reach for the following:
Wool socks
Long underwear
Ski pants
Parka
Fleece hat
Insulated gloves
Boots
Snow shovel
Ladder
Oh, the joys of being at home during the day.
“Nora, I’m going out onto the roof. You know the drill, right?” I say, my hand on the doorknob.
“Yes!” she yells from inside the hastily constructed “fort” in our family room. “No! Wait!” She sticks her head out. “I forget. If you fall off, do I call 911 or am I supposed to check on you first?”
You’ve gotta really love Vermont to live here in the winter.
Periodically, I order the kids to do household chores but I don’t do it with any consistency. One day, I might tell them to put away the plethora of toys in the toy room (a.k.a. our basement); two weeks later, I might beg them to strip the sheets from their beds. Is it any wonder that they aren’t tidy?
Feeling grumpier than usual after our daily recitation of insults and injuries (a.k.a. family dinner conversation), I put Medium and Large to work clearing the counter and putting dishes into the dishwasher.
A little while later, passing through the kitchen, I overheard the following exchange:
“There are no monsters living in this house.”
“There are too, Nora. I’m telling you. Haven’t you heard them bumping around at night? I’ve met them. I know.” Liam’s voice rang with eye-witness authority.
“I don’t believe you.” Her shaking hands knocked one of the dinner plates against the faucet. “Whoops.”
“Believe it. They’re really scary. They have these big eyes and you know what else? Wh-what was that?” He spun around, pretending he heard something. Facing his sister, he lowered his voice and said, “They don’t like me talking about them.”
Nora froze, cup in hand. Her five years of experience with Liam’s practical jokes warred with the delicious possibility of living with an honest-to-goodness monster.
“I’ll tell you their names in case you run into them. They’re names are—and don’t blame me if you’re terrified,” he paused dramatically and then grinned, unable to keep up his charade. “Frank, Earl and Carl!”
Together, they laughed so hard they hardly made any noise.
She caught her breath first. “Frank!” she said. “Get to work!”
I do like to share! But sometimes, I don’t. Mom got this picture in the mail and then she hung it up on the big board in the kitchen. She thinks it’s funny. I don’t. It makes me mad!
I share stuff with my big brother and my sister and my friends at school. And I share with my baby cousins. But I don’t always want to.
Babies! Who needs them?
When I woke up today, Mom told me that G.B. (Gargantuan Baby) was coming over to play. She took out all the baby toys and put the gate around the stove. Ha! G.B. doesn’t know that fire is hot? I know that fire is hot.
Well, G.B. and his dad came over but then, G.B.’s dad left without G.B.! Mom said he was going to the mountain to play in the snow.
I want to go play in the snow but Mom won’t come outside with me. She says we have to watch the baby inside. Harumph!
But I get to watch TV and I do…until G.B. wrecks my train track. That makes me mad! I made that! I jump off the couch and lay down on top of my trains. “Mom!” I yell. “He’s messing up my train track!”
Mom tells me to be nice to the baby.
Stupid baby.
These are MY toys. Mine. My own.
Oh, fine. He can play with my trains. I’ll play with my airplane. It makes cool noises. 1, 2, 3, blast off!
Uh-oh. Here comes G.B. “No, G.B.! This is MINE!” I run away. He can only crawl. He can’t catch me. I hold my airplane up high, where he can’t reach.
“Henry?” Mom is calling. “Keep an eye on G.B. while I set up the pack and play.”
I stop running. That’s my pack and play.
Harumph.
Wait! Where is G.B. going? He’s moving towards…he’s trying to get…PIGGY! “NO!” I shout. I grab her and put her behind my back. She is safe, but he is crying. Wow. He’s loud. I cover my ears. Mom picks him up and takes him away.
I’m all alone. I feel bad. G.B.’s just a baby. He’s not a big boy like me. I peek into the living room. G.B. and Mom are reading a book about trucks.
That’s my Mom.
I walk over. “Mom, can I sit in your lap?”
She says yes and makes room for me. I look at G.B. out of the corner of my eye. This is alright. I guess. I like this book. Trucks are cool. G.B. squirms away from us.
I’m watching you, G.B. I see you.
Mom makes lunch. She feeds G.B. in a special chair with a tray. He is eating applesauce. I am eating spaghettios with meatballs. I smile at G.B. I make a funny face at him. He screeches. I wince. Mom says it’s OK, that it’s his way of laughing.
The applesauce dribbles off G.B.’s chin. He spits more of it out when he makes a raspberry noise. Hey! I like to make those noises too! I make one. G.B. laughs. It makes me feel good. I giggle.
But only a little.
I had spent the afternoon repurposing leftovers because I am the only person in our family who doesn’t mind reheating and eating meals in their original form.
The ham bone was simmering in the dutch oven on top of the stove when Liam opened our side door and started kicking off his boots. He sniffed the air.
“Mmm. What’s that great smell?”
“It smells good, doesn’t it? It’s pea soup,” I answered.
“It can’t be pea soup; I hate pea soup. Seriously, what’s that delicious smell?”
“It’s still pea soup.”
“Yuck,” he grumbled. “What’s for dinner?”
“What do you think? Soup!”
“Can I have leftovers?”
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