Because of course I have that laying around.

#5 has a note from school that he needs to bring in some “kid-related” magazines, with pictures that he can cut out. A secret second grade project.

Me: What kind of pictures are they supposed to be?

#5: Ummm, things that I like.

“Kid-related” magazines. With pictures of Things That He Likes.

Call me unfit, call me an abomination, call me a commie bastard, but nothing like this exists in my house.

There are seventy-three Victoria’s Secret catalogues that came in the mail over the past two weeks and one from Cheaper Than Dirt Ammo. AOPA Pilot, Live Sound, Colorado Outdoors.

#2 pays for her own subscription to M, evil tween pop culture mag. I suggest this as an option, but #5 is firmly unwilling to bring in pictures of Justin Bieber and the Jonas Brothers. I try to start a fake argument with him about how he’s being unreasonable but CC is not amused.

The gift subscriptions to National Geographic Kids and to Highlights he loves, but the pictures in them aren’t of things in his top 10 list. He likes candy. He likes video games. He likes to talk.

He likes bacon.

In my defense, we went to the drug store in my town with the best newsstand.

I found:

Parenting magazines, where pictures of candy weren’t allowed and the only video games were of the educational variety.

More pictures of bikini-clad models looking desperately in need of a sandwich than I could count.

Car magazines (no interest). Music magazines (no interest). Baby magazines (I’m not a baby!). The video game magazines all had pics of games way over his head. I was completely striking out.

Me: How about a tattoo magazine, buddy? This one looks pretty cool.

#5: (hard stare, no response).

Me: It’s okay, buddy, I’ll go through the catalogues again when we get home. You want a candy bar?

Candy’s my answer for everything.

I picked up the mail when we got back. It was evening, but the mail was still out because as I have mentioned before, no one in my house but me ever gets the mail, even though you physically come within an inch and a half of the mailbox when you walk in the front door. Mail score! An Oriental Trading Halloween catalogue! No video games, but plenty of candy and creepy, gorey Halloween decorations. #5 was thrilled.

So they did this secret project in class with the pictures. Apparently, they displayed the projects in the hallway at school for a couple of weeks but I was unaware of this because he didn’t tell me and unless otherwise compelled, my interaction at their school only involves me walking them to the end of the driveway, checking both ways for traffic, and nudging them across the street.

Go ahead & judge; I don’t mind.

Done? Okay.

#5 finally brought his project home. He was so proud of it. The teacher had done giant silhouettes of the kids and then they were to cut out the pictures of “the things they liked” and write what their goal was. As in, lifetime goal. Like, what I wanna be when I grow up.

The pictures were supposed to be related to this lifetime dream of achievement.

And I sent my kid in armed with a single Oriental Trading Halloween catalogue.

Here are some closeups so you can fully appreciate this.

He still has it hanging on his wall.

They Can Smell Fear

The kids have an innate ability to sense weakness in a babysitter within the first thirty seconds of meeting them, and an equally honed ability to exploit that weakness at every opportunity.

First there was Amy (not Hitler, above. I just liked the picture.) The daughter of CC’s accountant, she was a geeky, shy, fearful girl with heavy glasses to whom #1 taped a “kick me” sign. Yes, all the kids then proceeded to actually kick her, repeatedly, until we came home.

There was Pamela, whose greatest liability was that she just wasn’t all that smart. That’s a problem when you’re taking care of kids who are hell bent on creating a psychological obstacle course that you must successfully pass in order to move on to their next realm of torture. On her third scheduled shift she simply didn’t come. No call/ no show. Can’t say I blame her.

Let us not forget Rebecca, who dragged me into innumerable discussions about What Was Truly Wrong With The Children, and how she could help- all projections of her own issues. It would have been a kick in the pants had she been a psych major or something, but alas, she was merely a girl who was incredibly offended when she picked up and smelled the pile of dirty wet kitchen towels that I pile in a heap on the stairs rather than walk all the way up to the washer. Why would you smell a goddamn pile of dirty towels? Who does that?

Rebecca left after she cornered #2 and grilled her until #2 finally admitted that she didn’t like her that much. Rebecca called me in tears when I was in the Lincoln Tunnel on my way to a two-show day. She could barely get the words out. “I just (sob!) can’t. . . stay here (gasp!). . . when they don’t (sob!) like meeeeeeee”.

More than one sitter has lost track of more than one kid. Not because the sitter isn’t paying attention, but because the little heathens plan it that way. They scatter with timed precision like some kind of roller derby play.

They gang up. They misdirect. They sneak.

They lie.

My worst parenting has come out in these situations. The kids are pleased as hell when they get rid of a sitter they don’t like. We get pissed, not only because the inmates aren’t allowed to run the asylum but because at times, the ones they hate were the only option. We’ve grounded. Withdrawn privileges. Given extra chores. Spanked. Yelled. Without a single lasting effect.

The hyenas sense the weak wildebeest, work together to separate it from the herd, and attack. You can take the hyenas’ video games away, make them clean the garage, and give them an earlier bedtime, but they’re still going to attack when the moment is right.

It’s in their nature.

But the hyenas always have each others’ backs. The kids are never more united than when they’re trying to get rid of a sitter they hate. When you get down to it, I respect the hell out of that, and I’m finally a little bit proud of it.

How To Get Left Alone

Long ago, in a land far away, before there were stepchildren.

I had this awesome apartment in Hoboken. There was very little in it. Some Ikea furniture and two kitchen chairs I rescued out of the trash. Brick walls, hardwood floors, and ceiling fans.

Endless uninterrupted thoughts. No one eating my cookies. Nobody in the bathroom when I needed to get in there. My world was far smaller and far less rich than it is now, but I was blissfully ignorant of that.

It’s been four and a half years since we got the kids and I moved in with CC. I have almost nothing from that apartment in Hoboken, with two notable exceptions. For some reason, those two kitchen chairs that I saved from the trash remain the sturdiest pieces of furniture in my house.

Just a pair of dinked-up wooden chairs that refuse to die. I sit in one to write. It isn’t terribly comfortable. In my house, we need a lot of chairs. There are a lot of butts.

Lately, I’ve been putting a throw pillow on the seat. I keep thinking I’ll get a chair cushion for it, but really, I can’t be bothered. #4 came in my room recently and noticed.

#4: Why are you sitting on a pillow?

Me: I’ve been trying to lose some weight and I’ve actually lost some and you know, I think my butt just isn’t as cushy as it used to be because there isn’t as much fat on it now? And so the chair sort of hurts? And I use a pillow sometimes?

She looked at me for a long time indicating her regret at ever asking. Then she said, “Why is my family so weird?” and left the room.