“That’s not fair,” Jake protested. “He wasn’t doing anything.”
“No,” I said, taking the guitar out of his hands. “But you were.”
“Sure, Mrs. M.,” Dalton said, bumping fists with Jake. “See ya later, dude.”
Jake watched him round the corner then turned back to his brother. “Thanks a lot, Kyle.”
“Me? You’re the one—"
A high-pitched wail from the other room cut him off. It was followed by the unmistakable thud of a small body collapsing in full tantrum.
A little girl shrieked. “My doll doesn’t want to marry the evil space robot!”
“She’s a warrior princess, duh!” a little boy shot back, genuinely offended. “Who else is he going to marry? A laser blaster?”
I thought again, longingly, about my possibly still hot cup of coffee and the gossip magazine I’d left sitting on the chair like a hopeful placeholder for a future I would no longer have.
I snapped at Jake and Kyle. “You two—come with me.”
The boys trailed after as we stepped into the living room. Four-year-old Grace, the strawberry-blonde baby of the family, lay face down, sobbing into the carpet, while Quinn, nineteen months older, officiated a shotgun wedding between her veterinary Barbie and his two-headed alien.
“The wedding’s been called off,” I announced. “Give her doll back, Quinn.”
“They’re not married yet,” he protested. “They have to kiss.”
“No!” Grace wailed. “I don’t want her to kiss the bad guy!”
I pried the Barbie from Quinn’s hand and passed it back to Grace. She popped up, ran straight at Quinn, and smacked him with it.
“Grace!” I reprimanded, and she immediately burst into tears.
Keith strolled into the battlefield, took a look around, andsaid, “Damn, Mom. Not to judge your parenting, but are we just letting the Lord of the Flies thing happen now?”
“Yes, Keith. I’m letting natural selection sort it out.”
“Cool, cool,” he said, continuing on his way.
Hoisting Grace into my arms, I barked orders. “Let’s go. All of you.”
I turned toward the kitchen, trusting the boys had enough sense to follow. They did. I pointed them to the table. “Sit. You here. You there. You—right there.”
Grace was last, mostly because I had to pry her, sloth-like, off my body and pour her, limp as a noodle, into her seat.
“What are we doing?” Jake asked, glancing at Kyle, who glanced at Quinn, who glanced at Grace, now smearing snot across her face with the back of her hand.
“Team-building exercise,” I said, pacing in front of them. “This is a failure to communicate. A breakdown in the sibling unit. The four of you are going to sit here until you two—Jake and Kyle—and you two—Quinn and Grace—can name three nice things to say about the other.”
“That’s it?” Jake brightened. “Okay. One. Kyle, you don’t smell nearly as bad as you did last year. Like… I noticed. It’s weird.”
“Your face has finally grown into your donkey teeth,” Kyle countered. “Way to go. That’s my one.”
“Not so fast.” I went to the junk drawer and pulled out a stack of wide-ruled paper and a container of pencils and crayons. “It has to be heartfelt. I’m setting a timer, and you’re all going to sit here quietly for five minutes and reflect on what you mean to each other. I cannot stress this enough: no talking. Once you have three actual beautiful reasons, you’ll write them down—or draw a picture for the non-literate ones—and then we’ll share them out loud. If you don’t take it seriously, we start over… and I have all day. Do you?”
I set the timer on the microwave and stepped out to the patio to grab my coffee, now lukewarm. Still acceptable. When I returned, Keith caught my eye, clearly enjoying the show as he shoveled a heaping spoonful of cereal into his mouth. He didn’t have a care in the world until Emma came blazing into the kitchen, holding her CamelBak water bottle like it was radioactive.
“Keith! Tell me you did not drink out of this.”
Keith blinked up at her from his cereal, like his brain needed a second to buffer. “Uh… yeah? I took a sip. Chill.”
