I told Francis all about my phone call with the math teacher, imbuing it with the zest of a thrilling off-Broadway play. During a particularly expressive point in my story Francis, tired and irritated after a long day and a mediocre dinner, interjected sardonically, “Oh, please, do that again with the bulgy eyes. That’s really attractive.”
Fully intending to add insult to injury, he mocked me by imitating my Marty Feldman expression, while I sat, stone-faced, glaring at him.
Although his deep-set eyeballs could never mimic the natural prominence of mine, Francis nonetheless contorted his face to look as ridiculous as possible. As I watched his discourteous display and doggedly gripped my fork over our weeknight dinner, our entire marriage flashed before my genetically protuberant eyes.
What’s happened to us? I wondered. We used to be so lovey-dovey, and now we’re pelting each other with insults over Shake ‘n Bake! Is our marriage hopeless? Does he think I’ve become unattractive and annoying? But wait just a minute, here. … I don’t recall anyone dying and making him God’s gift to women. Harrumph!
Bitter, I finally interrupted his facial contortions. “So, who do you think you are over there, Robert Redford or something?”
With blatant hypocrisy, Francis took immediate offense to my sarcasm and scowled.
We sat in silence, sucking the macaroni from our teeth and avoiding eye contact.
Unable to remain mute for more than a minute, I spoke weakly without looking up from my plate. “I can’t help that my eyes bulge, you know.”
Francis’s irritation was suddenly replaced with remorse. “Oh, Honey, I’m sorry,” he said, moving in closer and placing his hand on mine. “I don’t think your eyes bulge. I think you’re bulgy in all the right places.”
His awkward flattery softened my ire, and I released the death grip I had on my fork. Glancing up from the remains of my pork chop and into Francis’s deep-set eyes, I thought, “I only have eyes for you, dear … whether you like it or not.”
SEASON 3 EPISODE 3
THE CAR POOL BLUES
I get up early in the mornin’, round about six o’clock.
Bleary-eyed and yawnin’, I gather up the flock.
Three chillins in the van, we drive around the block.
At the neighbor’s crib, two are added to my stock.
Coffee cup in hand, I head for open road.
My minivan groans under such a heavy load.
Been doin’ this so long, I fear I might explode.
Can’t blame nobody else for seeds that I have sowed.
So here I sit each morning, radio a-blarin’.
In my rear-view mirror, I see the kids a-starin’.
The high price of gasoline has tempers a-flarin’.
Bite my tongue so kids won’t hear me a-swearin’.
The drive to school each mornin’ is pretty much the same.
Starts out kinda quiet, inadequate sleep to blame.
Getting up so early seems such a crying shame.
Without a break on weekends, I might just go insane.
Where to tune the radio dial, no one can agree.
The girls like the latest hits on Radio Disney.
The boys say pop music is so bourgeoisie.
They prefer the screeching sounds of rock melodies.
My son, he doesn’t speak, because he’s fast asleep.
In five months of car-pooling, he hasn’t uttered a peep.
I’ve often wondered if he might be counting sheep.
Into his open mouth, a bug or two might leap.
After twenty miles or so, and a dozen traffic lights,
We arrive at school on time, the sun now burning bright.
I bid them all adieu, as they scramble from my sight.
And breathe a sigh of relief—we made it there all right.
The Slam! of the van’s door ends child domination.
Reaching for the dashboard, I switch the radio station.
Hoping news will distract me from my degradation.
Sipping dregs of tepid coffee, I grope for relaxation.
In thirty minutes, I am home, and go about my day.
Sweep the floors, walk the dog, what’s for lunch today?
In no time flat, it seems to me, the hours have slipped away.
Must drive back to school again, no time for delay.
Back in the van and on the road, the blues they pervade.
I wonder, am I a lousy chauffeur who works without pay?
At home, have I become a lowly scullery maid?
I realize, there is no use for my bitter tirade.
Like tiny escaped prisoners, the kids burst out of school.
In the van I hear their chatter about who is super-cool.
I ask about their homework, if they’ve learned the Golden Rule.
But they’re soon asleep, open mouths begin to drool.
Pulling in the driveway, they look like the walking dead.
Zombies stumble from my van, toward our humble homestead.
They search for salty snacks, and a place to lay their heads.
After homework, dinner and play, it’s time to go to bed.
Five months down, five more to go, not sure if I can make it.
I worry that I’ll lose my mind, if I am forced to take it.
But these kids are mine, it’s true, and nothing will forsake it.
And so I must continue on, even if I fake it.
I’ll try to avoid the pitfalls, like gambling and booze.
I’ll remember, parenting is something that we choose.
I’ll face the fact that in life, one must pay the dues.
And suffer the trials and tribulations of The Carpool Blues.
SEASON 3 EPISODE 4
LILLY SAVES CHRISTMAS
Throughout their sisterhood, Anna and Lilly had clearly defined roles, or at least Anna did. She was the boss. All Lilly had to do was follow orders, which she was usually more than happy to do. Lilly’s birth ushered in Anna’s reign as social director, camp counselor, master manipulator, benevolent queen, or evil dictator, depending upon her mood. Her sovereignty had only one loyal subject—her little sister—but that was enough, at least for a time, to satisfy Anna’s desire for world domination.
Lilly accepted this lot in life without question or complaint. Nowhere were the contrasts in this relationship more clear than the year Lilly saved Christmas.
But first a little history. Back when we were living in Germany, Anna was the first of our three kids to deny Santa’s existence. Lying in bed on Christmas Eve, she heard a noise. Thinking it was Santa, she climbed down from her top bunk to peek through the keyhole in her bedroom door into the family room, expecting to see the jolly old elf himself.
What Anna witnessed at ten years old would squash her sugar plum visions and devour her gum drop dreams. There was no man in a red suit. Instead, it was only her dad, setting out gifts under our tree.
Her mind raced with the implications of this bombshell. Seeking comfort, she climbed into the bottom bunk with eight-year-old Lilly, who was fast asleep.
“Lilly,” she whispered.
Squinting, Lilly croaked, “Whah, huh?”
“We’re going to sing Christmas carols now,” Anna demanded.
“Okay,” said Lilly groggily but willingly, as though waking up in the middle of the night to sing Christmas carols made perfect sense.
Anna snaked her arms around Lilly’s little torso, hugging her tightly for her own solace, and began in a whisper, “Silent night, holy night …” Lilly did not know all the words, but she followed Anna’s lead, as usual. With their heads resting forehead to forehead on Lilly’s pillow, they sang the song over and over in the dark until Anna fell into a fitful sleep.
Three years later, when we were stationed in Florida, Lilly would turn the tables on her sister, as only Lilly could do. On that Christmas Eve, once again Anna and Lilly decided to sleep together, this time in Lilly’s double bed.
Watching he
r little sister merrily playing a Santa Claus-themed game on her Kindle, Anna grimaced. She was irritated that Lilly, at eleven years old, still believed in Santa Claus while Anna’s fun had been spoiled by what she saw through the keyhole three Christmas Eves before.
She’s probably faking it, Anna thought.
“You know he’s not real, right?” she said to Lilly.
Lilly looked over at her big sister, confused.
“Who’s not real?”
“Santa,” Anna said with cold indifference. “The parents made him up, you know.”
Lilly’s face contorted, and her eyes welled with tears. Anna went into detail, callously explaining that the bites taken out of the carrots and cookies were taken by Dad, not Santa and his reindeer. The curly script on the packages was all written by Mom.
“Anna, you’re mean!” Lilly cried, “That’s wrong! None of that is true! You’re just stupid!”
Rather than acknowledge any culpability for crushing her sister’s Christmas psyche, Anna did what she had always done when she made a mistake—she blamed Lilly.
“Lilly!” Anna scolded, “You shouldn’t talk to me like that! Say you’re sorry!”
Lilly’s anger transformed immediately into contrition, and she apologized.
“I just can’t understand why you treat me this way,” Anna replied, folding her arms and rolling to the other side of the bed to sulk.
“Please Anna, I’m sorry for saying you’re stupid,” Lilly pleaded. “Please forgive me!” After repeated pleas, Anna finally granted partial absolution to Lilly, so they could both get some sleep.
The next morning, Lilly being Lilly, she didn’t want her newfound knowledge about the existence of Santa Claus to put a damper on the festivities. Lilly didn’t say a word about it; instead she bounded down the steps and into the living room in her new fleece pajamas, grinning from ear to ear.
“Santa came!” she exclaimed, stretching her arms out wide. She got to work, doling out presents for each of us. After a significant pile of wrapping paper had accumulated in the center of the living room, and all the gifts were opened, Lilly found another present tucked behind the table that held our small, artificial tree.
“What’s this?” she said, “It says it’s for me from Santa!” Lilly tore the poorly wrapped gift open, revealing a small stuffed animal, a cow. Lilly hugged the fuzzy bovine and beamed, “I love it!”
I couldn’t remember wrapping that gift and assumed it must’ve been something Francis had picked up. Conversely, Francis assumed I had bought it. Either way, everyone was enjoying the Christmas spirit. Now that our work was done, and the kids were happy, we were both too cozy and contented to care where the cow came from.
Both girls were in college before we heard the whole story of what Anna told Lilly on that Christmas Eve and the origin of the mysterious cow. Lilly also said she’d noticed I had been struggling to get into the holidays after our move to Florida that year. She was right, the warm Christmastime weather was a difficult adjustment for me, a sad contrast to the idyllic snowy seasons of my childhood and our previous assignments. I couldn’t face picking out a tree and lugging it home on a hot, humid day. Thinking the kids wouldn’t notice the difference, I plumped for a four-foot fake tree instead of the large, real tree we usually had. I was wrong. Lilly noticed.
In spite of her disappointment about the tree and Anna’s revelation about Santa—or perhaps because of them—Lilly was determined to bring Christmas magic back to our family. She told us she was the one who wrapped up the cow—which she had recently bought for herself—and hid it under the table, hoping we would all believe in Santa again. And for a while, we did. Maybe we still do.
Sweet, unselfish, people-pleasing Lilly reminded us the true spirit of Christmas is in the giving. She gave us a gift by giving one to herself.
SEASON 3 EPISODE 5
BATTERY BY BLENDER
“MOLINARI!” the ER nurse roared, jolting us out of our waiting room stupor. Tearing our eyes from hypnotic crime show reruns playing on the wall-mounted television, Francis and I scrambled to move twelve-year-old Lilly, who’d been placed in a wheelchair to elevate her lacerated foot.
“So, what happened?” the nurse asked.
“It was the blender,” I blurted, nervously.
“The blender?!” The nurse looked in horror at Lilly’s foot, wrapped in a dishtowel.
“Well, no, her foot wasn’t actually in the blender … it was on the floor … and the blender was in the freezer.”
“In the freezer?” the nurse asked, confused.
“I … it was me …,” I mumbled culpably. “I put the glass pitcher in the freezer. When my daughter opened the door, it fell out and cut her foot.”
“Ah,” the nurse seemed relieved to not be dealing with a frappèed foot. “Let’s take a quick look.” As our daughter winced and whined, we carefully unraveled the dishtowel. “Hmmm … looks like you’re going to need a few stitches, young lady.”
The nurse fired off questions at us—“full name, date of birth, address, phone number, insurance carrier, policy number”—while tapping away at her computer.
Then, after a pregnant pause, she looked intently at us and carefully enunciated, “Has your daughter ever had stitches before?”
“No,” I answered immediately.
My mind waffled, and my eyes darted.
Should I tell her about that face plant Lilly did into the side of the backyard playset? If I don’t mention that, will she think I’ve got something to hide? Why is she asking this question anyway? Does she think we’re abusive parents with a history of suspicious ER visits? I guess the whole blender story does sound a bit suspect, and I was the one who put it in the freezer to begin with. I should’ve known it would slide off that bag of chicken tenders! It was my fault! I’m sure the nurse is alerting the police right now! I think I hear sirens!
“Sit tight in the waiting room. When the doctor is ready for you, we’ll get you all fixed up,” the nurse said with a smile.
We settled back into the waiting room, just in time to see Matlock render a withering cross examination. Stagnating under the unforgiving fluorescent lights for another hour, we reassured Lilly, analyzed the people around us, leafed through dog-eared magazines, and watched an episode of Hill Street Blues.
Just as I thought cobwebs were forming, our name was called.
The x-ray technician, the billing rep, the nurse, the doctor—they all asked the same questions. First a battery of rapid-fire queries regarding tedious details were launched in robotic succession, followed by one carefully worded question delivered police-interrogation style.
I can’t recall if the final question was “Has your daughter had stitches before?” or “Are you the abusive parent who negligently put the blender in the freezer sideways?” I prayed they wouldn’t bring up Anna and Hayden, who’ve had their share of emergency room visits. Three broken bones, two pulled elbows, and at least a dozen stitches, with such typical excuses—fell off the couch, fell off the playset, fell into the playset, fell down the stairs. It all sounded so textbook, I was sure the police were on their way to haul me off to jail.
But finally, after three hours of waiting and thirty minutes of treatment, we were released. Feeling like some kind of middle-aged jailbird, I sheepishly wheeled Lilly back through the ER entrance.
Suddenly, “YOU’RE UNDER ARREST!” blared from the waiting room. I considered bolting, but I was still a little sore from my body sculpting class, and besides, I would need to pack my fiber pills and contour pillow before I could lead a life on the run. Just as I turned to face the wall and spread ’em, I noticed that the order had come from CHiPs Officer “Ponch” Poncherello on the wall-mounted TV.
I was free to go on my own recognizance.
On our way home, while Lilly sipped a conciliatory Whataburger chocolate shake, I turned to her in an effort to relieve the still-fresh pang of remorse.
“I’m so sorry, Lollipop,” I said. “If I hadn�
�t put that blender in the freezer sideways, none of this would’ve happened.”
“It’s okay, Mom,” she said between sips. “It was just an accident.”
As if Columbo found the smoking gun, as if Cagney & Lacey released me from lock-up, as if Ally McBeal rested my case, as if Judge Wapner rendered his final verdict, as if Kojak winked and said, “Who loves ya, baby?”—I was released from my self-imposed blame and declared myself not guilty.
SEASON 3 EPISODE 6
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S SCHEME
I was a teenager, and it was a typical summer’s night. With our family vacation a whole month away and school not starting until September, I was dying for some excitement.
After cutting the grass and weeding the garden, supplemented with an hour of lying out in the sun coated in tanning oil, I was released by my parents to find whatever fun was available in our little town.
I made a telephone call to my best friend, Patti, like I always did, except for that boring summer when she had a boyfriend. I talked on my retro candlestick telephone, a sixteenth birthday present from my parents, while lying across the yellow bedspread on my mock-brass twin bed.
The first thing I did was confirm with Patti that neither of us had been invited to a party or had a date.
“Nope,” was Patti’s response. Just what I had suspected. Next, we needed to secure transportation for the evening. Patti’s parents had taken out their brown Ford Fairmont station wagon for the evening, so I borrowed my father’s enormous 1977 Chevy Blazer.
I picked up Patti at her house and—after we applied copious amounts of lip gloss and made sure our bangs looked just right—we headed out to cruise the town.
Our journey started with the usual drive by the local arcade, Games 101, a hangout of sorts. Although Patti and I didn’t give two shakes about Asteroids or Ms. Pac-Man, we knew the arcade was a veritable command center where information on teenage social events was collected and disseminated. Sometimes we scored big and received word of a bonfire in Bennett’s woods or a party at the house of a classmate we all referred to as “Meatball,” but on this particular night, the arcade was almost empty. Rather than driving around for hours all glossed up and trying to not look too desperate, we decided to scrape together a few of our girlfriends to pile into the Blazer and go check out the drive-in movie theater.
The Meat and Potatoes of Life Page 8
