The Scream

Oh.

my.

god.


Hammerhead's brother got his first car two nights ago. For now, let's just set aside the way I struggle when I compare my stepsons' abundant possessions with the scraps and bits I was able to provide my own boys when they were teenagers. That's as old an issue around here as the poisonous bile that sticks in my throat whenever I spend too much time thinking about Blood Runs Cold.

Also, let's not even talk about the difference between having been raised a (Whatever It Is You Want, You Don't Deserve It And Shame On You For Even Thinking You Did) Catholic, like I was, compared with a (Of Course You Should Have That Beautiful Thing That You Already Have Four Of At Home! You Are Worth So Much More Than Even That!) Jew like Perfect Man.
But, tedious as they are, both of those pre-existing factors bear mention, because, like fleas on an old yellow farm dog, they are always there. And they bite and their bites itch like a mo' fo,' and that can influence behavior.

So Hammerhead's brother got a car, with gift money from Perfect Man's parents he's been saving for ten years, plus money he's saved from his summer jobs this year and last, plus money Perfect Man and I (but not Blood Runs Cold, because she "can't afford it") have chipped in. And it's a nicer car than I would have ever been able to help either of my kids buy, if I had ever helped my kids buy a car. And I'm a little conflicted about it.

BUT, for now, let's just talk about last night, when Hammerhead's brother--who shall from this point forward be known as Jeep Boy--was driving us all out to dinner in this new, 1999 blue Jeep. He was bursting with excitement and wonder at the view through the windshield, the new horizon of manhood that now lay before him, and exhilarated to be seen behind the wheel of that fine car. This was the way he's has wanted to be seen for so long: an independent, capable, completely grown adult. A child no more. And it was all actually happening.

Maybe that's what distracted him from using his goddamn brain, causing him to nearly kill all four of us.

Well, that's an exaggeration. Aunt Pillowhead has been known to exaggerate once or twice. What actually happened was this: Jeep Boy was driving west on a two-lane, east/west street. The taqueria that was our destination was on the south side of the street. We were on the north side. Jeep Boy spotted an open parking spot on the south side of the street, and began turning the Jeep into it. And by "turning the Jeep into it" I mean crossing the street into oncoming traffic and attempting to parallel park, with the car facing the opposite direction of every other car that was parked on that side of the road.

At first, I thought Jeep Boy was trying to pull a U turn, but as soon as I realized that he had every intention of continuing his westerly-facing direction, and that he intended to parallel park the Jeep this way, facing the west on an eastbound street, and as soon as I saw the line of cars coming at us head on as we sat there like four fat flightless birds strapped in a big blue boat, I asked him this question:

"JEEP BOY! WHAT THE FUCK???!!!" in a loud, high-pitched tone of voice.

I don't know what was going on with Perfect Man, who was sitting speechless in the front passenger seat. I think both he and Hammerhead had been stunned into silence by shared wonderment--it was as though Jeep Boy had been abducted by aliens and replaced with a defective look-alike--a blind, stupid one who couldn't drive worth a shit--and they couldn't believe their eyes.

"What?" Jeep Boy asked, whipping around to look at me, totally terrified.

Finally, Perfect Man came to. "This isn't a one-way street, Jeep Boy," he said with inexplicable calm.

"I know!" Jeep Boy said.

"You can't park facing this direction on this side of the street," Perfect Man said.

"Why not?" Jeep Boy asked, shaken and confused.

"BECAUSE IT'S AGAINST THE LAW!!!" I screamed from the back seat.

Perfect Man looked at me with a meaningful expression. The meaning it was full of was 'screaming things from the back seat is not helpful.'

The cars that faced us were gathering in number, blocked from their passage and stopped in the middle of the street, yet no one was honking. I personally think this is because they were enjoying themselves so much. All the drivers were thinking, "Holy Moly! This is frickin' awesome! I never get to see anything this frickin' bizarre!"

Ten minutes later, after we'd gotten out of that situation, and after Perfect Man had gotten Jeep Boy's coloring back to a healthy, peachy pink by telling him a "funny" story about how I'd screamed the exact same thing to my youngest son Hilarious & Gifted eight years ago, when Perfect Man was teaching him how to drive a standard and he went right through a red light, Jeep Boy smiled sheepishly.

"I honestly didn't know you couldn't park like that," he said. "I really didn't."

Oh, my god. There are so many, many things he doesn't know about driving a car, let alone life. How will he stay safe and well in the process of finding out? How did any of us?

Is This A Good Time?

Poor Hammerhead. He got his braces today.

I picked him up from the orthodontist and he was sweetly subdued, effortfully cheerful, trying to be brave.

I realized as we were driving home that three years ago, I'd picked his brother up from the same orthodontist when he got his braces, too, and he'd had the same stunned and plaintive demeanor. He was starving, and I made the mistake of taking him to a deli and buying him plain slices of turkey and cheese. I thought it would be soft enough for him to manage, but he couldn't chew them, and he got sad and frustrated, teary-eyed and silent.

Hammerhead was also starving today, so I took him straight to his favorite smoothie place and got him his favorite smoothie. He thanked me and sipped it on the way home, alternating his comments of how good it tasted with comments of appreciation for the "free" electric toothbrush his orthodontist had presented him.

Inspired by the abundant good will in the car, I decided to take it to the next level. In my opinion, nothing eases physical discomfort better than humor, so to distract Hammerhead from his pain, I asked him if he knew when a good time to go to the dentist was. He said, "No."

"Two-thirty," I said. "Get it? Tooth hurty?"

"Aunt Pillowhead," he groaned. "I'm not in the mood."

"Hammerhead," I said. "You're never in the mood for my hilarious jokes. And that is hard to live with."

"Your jokes are never hilarious," he said. "That's hard to live with, too. And oh my GOD! My mouth hurts so much! I just wish I would go into a coma for a week!"

"What a coincidence!" I said. "I also just wish you would go into a coma for a week!"

Hammerhead laughed in spite of himself.

What a funny thing, to be present and depended upon in such little landmark events in these boys' lives. And what an education I am getting. Along with learning what is best to feed stepsons whose mouths have recently been bound with steel, I think I'm also learning to not want more than what is there, to do my best with the little patch of land I have. Like those lovingly tended, tiny little gardens you sometimes see in front of barren, humble homes, or flowers that find a way to grow in the cracks of sidewalks--the point is not to wish for more beauty, but to create it where you can, even when you thought there was no room, or that it wouldn't make a difference.

Like buying smoothies and telling bad jokes on a ride home from the orthodontist, for example. For some reason, I think I'll remember it for a long time. I wonder if Hammerhead will, too.

Dinner Time!

I've been thinking about dinner at our house.

It's a complicated affair, which too often does not result in anything Norman Rockwell-like. To wit:

• Hammerhead: Loves anything that used to have a mother. Hates cheese. Loves potatoes, will eat broccoli, otherwise hates vegetables, especially the reviled tomato. Is very annoyed by his brother.
  
  
• Hammerhead's brother: Loves cheese. Enjoys meat without skin or bones, cooked medium well. Hates anything that grew in the ground. Will not touch anything green, or anything that has touched anything green, or anything that has seeds or nuts or other suspicious texture in it. Is very annoyed by Hammerhead.
  
  
• Aunt Pillowhead: Loves everything, but is a vegetarian. At dinnertime, often experiences an end-of-day urge to teach Hammerhead and his brother a thing or two about life.
  
  
• Perfect Man: Adventurous eater and culinary grad, perfectionist and unfailing optimist who clings to the stubborn belief that if he cooks four separate delicious meals for us, his most beloved in the world, we will sit down together and have happy dinnertime harmony. (Lovingly prepared meal=domestic bliss.)

But the problem is, by the time he's shopped (fresh for every meal), chopped, cooked and served these four separate dinners, he is exhausted, cranky, and disappointed, either by the way something didn't turn out, or by someone's bad attitude. Or because he's called us to the table four times and we haven't come until the fifth time, because of skateboarding (Hammerhead), ESPN (Hammerhead's brother), or the mind-lubricating, limb-slowing combination of a glass of red wine and internet Scrabble (yours truly).

Aunt Pillowhead! you think. Why don't you cook dinner every now and again, and help out the poor guy? After all, he IS perfect. Doesn't he deserve a break?

I have tried this, but it doesn't work. Perfect Man is adamant that dinnertime is his territory, his contribution, his ritual. He doesn't even want help prepping, but for the occasional washing of the greens, because people get in the way.


And so he does it his way, which does work pretty well sometimes. But too often, we sit with a beautiful dinner, teens who quibble, a damn-it-I-need-to-be-heard!-stepmother, and a sad, quiet dad.

Something needs to be done. Is it family meeting time?