“I hate that I have a bad rap because of you,” said the
seventh...
“I hate that I have a bad rap because of you,” said the
seventh grader to his ninth-grade brother on the afternoon of the first day of
school.
“I didn’t give you a bad rap,” said the ninth grader, hurt
at the edge of his voice.
“Yes you did. I hate it,” said the earnest middle sibling
eating cheesy popcorn out of a small plastic bowl.
“Zack’s being a mom-hogger,” said the fourth grade girl of
her ninth grade brother.
“Am not,” said Zack. Poor Zack! Attacked from all sides.
“Then why is she biking to school with you tomorrow?”
“Because she needs to know how long it takes to bike so we
know when I should leave the house in the morning! God, Jessie!”
“Mom-hogger,” she said again, quietly.
The three kids shout at each other, tattle about TV
watching, video games, homework, snacks. They talk about Magic the Gathering
and their favorite Life Saver flavors (“Pomegranate,” said the seventh grader.
“There is no such flavor as pomegranate,” said his sister, “you’re talking
about grape.” “No I’m not. I’m talking about pomegranate.” “You mean grape.”)
We’ve been there a couple weeks, building a bathroom where there was none and enlarging
and renovating one that existed. There’s a trampoline in the backyard. The kids
bounce, whack each other with pool noodles, wrestle, and for twenty minutes
last week, on one of the last afternoons before school started, when the sun
had shifted west enough to leave the yard in shade, the fourth grade girl and
her seventh grade brother lay on it together, he using her as a pillow, head on
the small of her back. They were so still. Inside, there are stuffed animals on
the beds of the boys, matted, well-loved. How perfectly mixed up they all seem,
cusping, verging. Angry, raging one moment, calm and loving the next, limbs
tangled on the sofa. How churny this age, I thought at first. But how familiar.
It’s not just this in-betweening, this slow shed of kid-dom. Maybe it’s embarrassing
to admit how familiar this felt, how mixed up I still feel most of the time. What
do we ever outgrow?
