The Children become Siblings...Daddy's little Maniac...

It was bedtime and I came into her room to tuck her in.
Izzy: "Daddy, can I have a rug in my room?
Daddy: "Sure, we can get you a rug."
Izzy: "Good. If I have a rug, that way my room will be special to friends."
Daddy: "Oh...o.k. Do you want me to snuggle with you?"
Izzy: (Video Game in hand) "I am playing my game. I don't require you."





I am certain that somewhere there are brothers and sisters who help each 0ther to muddle through this life or form an equal parted, mutual admiration society. Somewhere there are parents who intone the wonder and joy of raising children who love on another and always do as they are told. Somewhere all of these things exist...perhaps not in this world...and it damn sure isn't in this house.
It wasn't that long ago that Isobel couldn't wait for her brother to get up so that she could just watch him...I'll say that again...just WATCH him. She asked me early one morning, ' When is he getting up?'
'Soon," I said. 'Why?
'I just want to watch him.'
'Watch him doing what?' I asked.
'Just watch him.' she said.
She was enamoured of him. Hopelessly gaga for her big brother. Just a word from him could make(or break) her entire day. And The Boy to his credit, was almost always totally accommodating . He would wait for her when she was trying to catch up to him, if she got hurt in some way it was as though he could feel the pain himself and if she was crying he was the first to try to assuage her tears. He was a model big brother and it was no wonder she just wanted to watch him.
"Oh somewhere in this favoured land, the sun is shining bright.
The Band is playing somewhere and somewhere hearts are light."
But not here...
At some point during his ten years(nearly eleven, he would want me to point that out) The Boy has developed a brain and a mental acuity so devious, his Mother and I actually fear for our safety if he ever decides to use his new found gifts for evil purposes. He has somehow developed the ability to make his sister lose complete control of her senses without actually doing anything. Certainly nothing punishable, anyway...Brilliant and evil...
The hand full of times that he has been caught doing something, anything, it has been so minute that he still manages to evade any repercussions. He has the ability to get under his sister's skin and spread out his tendrils like an allergic reaction. Not enough to do any real harm but enough to make you snap and get yourself into trouble.
"I just want to SMASH him!" Isobel screamed one day. He had gotten to her.
We have a rule in our house that clearly states 'One child per cushion of the couch.' It preempts any question as to one's place in front of the television. We have had the occasional flare ups but detente is the general order of things. At least it used to be. Isobel loves to recite the rules (she is a girl) but The Boy found a loop hole. By virtue of his age and speed, he can move his feet fro his cushion and touch them onto her cushion with just enough time to get her attention but not actually break any rule. It drove her mad, quite literally. All I could think was ' My god, the genius of that.'
I would like to say that my daughter is calm in the face of adversity, that she takes this all in stride. And she does. Mrs. Narrators daughter however, is a raving lunatic and is currently no match for The Boy's evil.
She was making a card for friend she would see the next day and The Boy looked at her. (his gaze has become evil now) In his look burned the scorn of failure and the laughter of a thousand tormentors. I may be paraphrasing, it was difficult to make out what Isobel was saying through the growls and the tears. After the shredding of her first attempt, she had a second go at the home made greeting card. Both Mrs. Narrator and I had tried to write out what she wanted to say on the card so that he could copy it. The Boy looked at her again. The second attempt was torn from it's stapled backing. The tears flowed freely.
"What's wrong honey?" I asked.
"I can't do this. He keeps looking at me and I CAN'T do this right!"
"Let me see it," I said. "Let's see if we can fix it."
She picked up the piece of paper and crumpled it up into as tight a ball as she could muster. The look on her face said 'You stupid, stupid old man. We can't fix this. Not now, not ever!' and she snapped.
She picked up a baby blanket (hardly a punitive implement but it was close at hand) and began to wail away on The Boy. He laughed, which enraged her further and she swung the blanket with venom and vitriol, growling and spitting like a wild beast. It was only a shout from Mrs. Narrator that brought Isobel back to her senses and she began to cry.
"Come on you, let's go to bed." Mrs. Narrator said.
"O.K." said Izzy through the tears. I picked her up and carried her to her bedroom. In the blink of an eye, they had gone from brother and sister and a close as they could be to SIBLINGS. With rivalry firmly in place.
The Boy came up shortly after that and because he hadn't actually done anything but look at her (and not even in a particularly sinister way) he skirted any sort of outcome other that the precise one he wanted....Genius, pure evil genius...
We were going out one day and his hair looked as though he slept with curlers that someone had wrapped in a wet sweat sock. I offered to comb his hair before we went out, under the guise of making him look presentable...I thought better of it...if you don't see that birth mark it doesn't exist, right?


There are times in one's life when you must take your mind elsewhere. Times when you need to let your mind go for a little walk, away from where it currently is. Perhaps a place of sorrow or pain, perhaps something as simple as skull crushing boredom...Your Happy Place. 'Go to your Happy Place, Sid.'
I always thought that my happy place would involve music and me playing it in front of millions of adoring fans. But it wasn't the right fit. I though maybe it would be the birth of my daughter, which although a joyous and wonderful experience, left me confused and frustrated and fightened. And as it turns out, woefully unprepared for the for the skin peeled back, exposed skull and goggle eyed lunatic ravings of a hormonal mother. (Experienced father's know of what I speak. New father's...you have my sympathy)
I think I spent a lot of time looking for my happy place...maybe too much time. I mean I didn't let life rip itself from under me as I pondered my Happy Place but I did spend a fair amount of time (and no small amount of scotch) looking for it...but devoted readers I have found it. At last I have found my elusive Happy Place and no matter what the situation, I know I can think back on this one moment and smile...laugh even.
I was outside edging the garden of all things, when Isobel came out and asked what I was doing.
"I'm edging the gardens," I said.
"Can I help?" she asked.
"You can help me mulch, after I do the edges."
"No," she said. "I want to use that." She pointed to the weed whip that doubles as an edger.
"Oh honey, I don't know..." I thought about it a second and figured a way that would dissuade her quickly. "OK, but you need to put on long pants and proper shoes. No flip -fops."
The thought of putting on shoes will usually stop my barefoot hillbilly girl from doing just about anything. In a flash she had disappeared into the house and re-emerged wearing black tights and pink wellies. I was on the hook now. How dangerous could it be if she just hacked at the weeds around the yard?
She took the spinning beast from my hands with the skill of a surgeon. My fear of her injuring herself melted away and my fear of the new personality that emerged from my daughter kicked into overdrive. Buzz-uzzz-uzzzz. She set upon the weeds with glee and began cackling as they fell before her. Lopping off heads of flowers as she went.
She stopped briefly and turned around. 'It's making me a little bit wet, on my face.' her face and hair was covered in the green gore of mutilated weeds.
"Well Pick, you can't be a homicidal maniac without a little blood splatter." I said thoughtfully.
"What?" she asked.
"Skip it."
Buzzz-uzzz-uzzz. She cris-crossed the yard for about a half an hour, killing as she went and suddenly came over to me looking upset- squeezing the trigger with no result.
"The battery died." I said.
She threw down the weed whip that doubles as an edger. "Damn it." she walked toward the house, crestfallen...my pink wellied murderous happy place...