the worst about teenagers, like so many grown-ups around here do. When I ran away he even offered to let me sleep in the jailhouse so I wouldn’t freeze to death.
I hold baby Lillian while Mom sets the table and experience this weird moment where I feel as if I’m looking into my own eyes. Mom’s maternal radar system picks up on this and she says, “She looks exactly like you did at that age. Look at that mop of strawberry-blond hair!”
“You mean apricot,” I say. “Just think of the third-degree sunburns and lime green freckles she has to look forward to.”
“Oh, Hallie! Why do you always act as if your coloring is some sort of handicap, when it’s so much more
interesting
than blond hair with blue eyes or dark hair with dark eyes.”
“Interesting, huh,” I say doubtfully. “Maybe Lillian and I can start a support group for the differently hued.”
Five-year-old Francie has come up from the basement and clings to my jeans, beaming up a big gap-toothed grin and trying to show me everything she’s ever drawn.
To Francie I’m more like a fun aunt who occasionally comes to visit and performs card tricks. She doesn’t remember back to when I lived at home—all the fighting and the doors slamming. And even
I
have to admit that I didn’t exactly find the little kids very amusing back then. However, now that I’m a visitor who can escape at any time, and no longer an inmate, I think they’re pretty cute.
“Isn’t she a little young to be losing her teeth?” I ask Mom, though I’m no expert on child development.
Mom shakes her head. “She knocked the front two out while trying to ride Darlene’s bike last week. The dentist said the only thing to do is wait for her adult teeth to come in and that we’re lucky it wasn’t those.”
Dad walks in, still as square and sturdy-looking as ever, just like whatever house or car he inhabits. But it also appears as if he could use some sleep. I’d say about a year’s worth. First he kisses Mom on the lips. Then there’s that awkward moment where neither of us are sure if we should hug and kiss. Dad isn’t emotionally withdrawn. In fact, he’s very affectionate until you’re ten—lots of piggyback rides, kisses, and tickling. However, after his daughters are in training bras Dad doesn’t want to be perceived as being involved in anything unChristian. So now it’s a quick self-conscious hug and a drive-by kiss. With the boys he transitions to handshakes when they start school so it doesn’t appear as if his sons have been raised to be soft or unmanly.
“You look terrific!” Dad announces with a proud smile. This translates to: You’re wearing little or no makeup and you’re not drunk or pregnant. Also, Dad prefers long hair on girls. Only I don’t keep mine long to make him happy but rather so that I can braid my unwieldy mane or pull it back into a ponytail. Ever since reading
The Elephant Man
in ninth grade I’ve been convinced that an escaped zoo lion frightened my mother while she was pregnant with me.
“Congratulations on the new baby,” I say.
“Well, why wouldn’t I want lots more children just like my Eric and Hallie?”
What a difference going to college instead of a casino makes. I’d transitioned from reprobate relation to the family hall of fame, right up there with my knightly older brother, Eric, Sir Football Head, who can do no wrong.
“We’re driving down to Indiana next weekend to watch Eric play in the end-of-year game that raises money for local charities. Why don’t you come along? He’d love to see you.”
No way! A half-hour visit with the family is one thing. A ten-hour car trip is another altogether. If there were a scholarship offered for playing license-plate bingo, believe me, I would have applied for it. And having people at rest areas stare at your ten-member family exiting a station wagon like circus clowns pouring out of a Volkswagen gets old pretty fast.
“As much as I’d love to, I’m pretty
I hold baby Lillian while Mom sets the table and experience this weird moment where I feel as if I’m looking into my own eyes. Mom’s maternal radar system picks up on this and she says, “She looks exactly like you did at that age. Look at that mop of strawberry-blond hair!”
“You mean apricot,” I say. “Just think of the third-degree sunburns and lime green freckles she has to look forward to.”
“Oh, Hallie! Why do you always act as if your coloring is some sort of handicap, when it’s so much more
interesting
than blond hair with blue eyes or dark hair with dark eyes.”
“Interesting, huh,” I say doubtfully. “Maybe Lillian and I can start a support group for the differently hued.”
Five-year-old Francie has come up from the basement and clings to my jeans, beaming up a big gap-toothed grin and trying to show me everything she’s ever drawn.
To Francie I’m more like a fun aunt who occasionally comes to visit and performs card tricks. She doesn’t remember back to when I lived at home—all the fighting and the doors slamming. And even
I
have to admit that I didn’t exactly find the little kids very amusing back then. However, now that I’m a visitor who can escape at any time, and no longer an inmate, I think they’re pretty cute.
“Isn’t she a little young to be losing her teeth?” I ask Mom, though I’m no expert on child development.
Mom shakes her head. “She knocked the front two out while trying to ride Darlene’s bike last week. The dentist said the only thing to do is wait for her adult teeth to come in and that we’re lucky it wasn’t those.”
Dad walks in, still as square and sturdy-looking as ever, just like whatever house or car he inhabits. But it also appears as if he could use some sleep. I’d say about a year’s worth. First he kisses Mom on the lips. Then there’s that awkward moment where neither of us are sure if we should hug and kiss. Dad isn’t emotionally withdrawn. In fact, he’s very affectionate until you’re ten—lots of piggyback rides, kisses, and tickling. However, after his daughters are in training bras Dad doesn’t want to be perceived as being involved in anything unChristian. So now it’s a quick self-conscious hug and a drive-by kiss. With the boys he transitions to handshakes when they start school so it doesn’t appear as if his sons have been raised to be soft or unmanly.
“You look terrific!” Dad announces with a proud smile. This translates to: You’re wearing little or no makeup and you’re not drunk or pregnant. Also, Dad prefers long hair on girls. Only I don’t keep mine long to make him happy but rather so that I can braid my unwieldy mane or pull it back into a ponytail. Ever since reading
The Elephant Man
in ninth grade I’ve been convinced that an escaped zoo lion frightened my mother while she was pregnant with me.
“Congratulations on the new baby,” I say.
“Well, why wouldn’t I want lots more children just like my Eric and Hallie?”
What a difference going to college instead of a casino makes. I’d transitioned from reprobate relation to the family hall of fame, right up there with my knightly older brother, Eric, Sir Football Head, who can do no wrong.
“We’re driving down to Indiana next weekend to watch Eric play in the end-of-year game that raises money for local charities. Why don’t you come along? He’d love to see you.”
No way! A half-hour visit with the family is one thing. A ten-hour car trip is another altogether. If there were a scholarship offered for playing license-plate bingo, believe me, I would have applied for it. And having people at rest areas stare at your ten-member family exiting a station wagon like circus clowns pouring out of a Volkswagen gets old pretty fast.
“As much as I’d love to, I’m pretty
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