But getting all the artsy shit together does.
And arranging it.
And setting it up on her much smaller white top kitchen island.
And of course, deciding on the proper playlist for such a new adventure.
I eventually let my little bro pick the music – under Gillybean’s insistence.
Rookie mistake.
Ain’t got a clue what any of this garbage is and am already regretting my commitment to listening to it during the duration of this project.
We’re only ten minutes into this shit.
“Ouch!” Bronny barks, fingers snatching themselves away from where he put what I’m certain is too much glue.
“Yes,” Gillybean snickers from the chair on the other side of him, “hot glueishot.” One leg sassily crosses over the other. “I didn’t think I needed to say that.”
“Too hot,” he grumbles as he sucks on the edge of his finger.
“You hurt or you injured, bud?” I tease in between searching through the container of markers.
Bronny grunts at the hockey phrased question before grousing, “Why am I the one doin’ this?”
“Why areyouthe one makin’your datea mum?” mockingly escapes at the same time I find the silver sharpie I was determined to discover.
“Yeah!” Another annoyed scoff shoots out. “Shouldn’t you be doin’ this Gilly?” His attention cuts to her. “Ya know with your…lady…fingers…or whatevs.”
One slap upside the back of his head precedes me snapping, “Be less offensive.”
“Wasn’t tryin’ to be!”
“Try better!”
“You try better!”
“Youdobetter!”
“I didn’t dowrong!Lady fingers ain’t a bad thing!”
“Sounds bad!”
“You sound bad!”
“Whistle on the play,” Gilly gently interjects like the real life zeb she is, ignoring the sound of her nearby, vibrating cell.
Both of our mouths shut, although tension continues to linger.
Being a big brother is one thing.
This full-time guardianship is a whole other.
It’s like being in The Cup run, every minute, of every day, with no rest.
How do people do this all the goddamn time?
Am I sure I wanna do this again, someday in the future, all the fucking time with another, smaller, louder one?!
