“Now, what…?” I lead.
“Now, please,” she says, rolling her eyes. There’sa dormant teenager living inside my five-year-old, like an ancient volcano thatcould explode at any moment. These days she just rumbles. But in a few years,I’m going to have to move out of the house in order to protect myself from thehot lava that will be Becca.
I scan the shelf of cereal boxes to find that, although weown approximately forty-two kinds of General Mills and Kellogg’s varieties, weare fresh out of Kix.
“How about limited-edition Froot Loops Sprinkles?” I say.
“Kix.”
“Berry Berry Kix?”
“Regular!” she says, clearly not amused.
I know how this is going to end, and it’s not pretty.
“Bec, I’m all out of Kix.” I make a pouty face, to let hersee how devastating this moment is to me. Maybe if I feign distress, she won’thave to.
Her mouth opens wide, but no sound emerges. Her facewrinkles and contorts. Ben takes his bowl and moves to the other side of theroom with it, so as not to be caught in the path of whatever tornado is aboutto be unleashed.
A piercing wail breaks the silence and reverberates aroundthe room. Fat tears sprout fully formed, running down her pink cheeks anddrenching her pajamas in seconds. She is a tsunami, a typhoon, a series ofnatural disasters from around the globe bottled and unleashed in my kitchen.
“Mommy!” she hollers. “Ooooouuugghh!”
Little people, little problems. I try not to laugh at herneed for drama, then I console her, as I do every other morning when I can’tgive her exactly what she wants. If I have plain bagels, she wants sesame. If Ihave apples, she wants pears. If I’ve made pancakes, she wants waffles.
Today, I offer up all the other cereals like they arecontestants in a beauty pageant. “Look, Bec, Lucky Charms has swirlyhorseshoes! The unopened Frosted Flakes holds a prize inside! Don’t you wantto know what it is?”
I’m all slick gloss on the outside, and I know that I’msupposed to be the one in charge here, but my heart is beating a million milesa nanosecond. Just to be clear: I am a tad bit petrified of my five-year-old.
Becca considers my overwhelmingly enthusiastic response. Herpuffy eyes meet mine and, for a moment, I think the storm is blowing over. Theremay be a spark of reason there, behind the psychotic glaze.
Instead, she reaches over and grabs the opened box ofLucky Charms, sniffing its contents like a fine connoisseur. Then she takes ahandful of the sugarcoated puffs, slides off her seat, and considers me. Sheopens her fist and pops the entire contents into her mouth, chewingthoughtfully. A stray purple star ends up on the floor, where Becca steps onit, perhaps accidentally, on her way back to the sunroom’s television.
That poor Lucky Charm is like a fine dust now, and Beccais trailing it with her sock across the white kitchen tile.
“Miss Rebecca Eliza Worthing!” I say. As if what? The useof her full, formal name will whip her into shape? “Shake that off your foot!” Shedoes. “Now, please come help me clean that up or I’ll…” But she’s gone before Ican come up with a suitable threat, perhaps to work through the rest of herdispleasure with an unsuspecting Barbie.
“Good job, Mom,” Ben says, deeming it safe to approach thekitchen island once more.
He places his empty cereal bowl in front of me and mocksmy parenting with a thumbs-up signal and a sardonic grin.
“What? You can’t put the bowl in the sink, twelve inchesthat way?” I snap at him. “Or, God forbid, inside the actualdishwasher?”
“Whatever,” he says, heading to the den to watch cartoons.“You and dad are both in bad moods this morning.”
Amidst deep, cleansing breaths, I write sweet little noteson paper napkins and slip them into my children’s lunch bags, hoping that bydoing so, I will actually feel the scribbled sentiment.
After I finish putting Ben’s and Becca’s lunches andsnacks, in their color-coordinated containers, into their rightful pockets ofthe correct backpacks, I place my lunch in my school bag along with a folder ofgraded essays and three folders of not-graded essays. I move it all to thedoor, ready for launch in eight minutes’ time.
Becca sheepishly re-enters the kitchen, fully dressed forschool. She leans against the doorframe and looks up through long lashes. “CanI have some more of that cereal? It was good. I’m sorry. Please?”
“Sure, honey,” I say, biting my tongue. She’s onlyfive, Lauren, I think. She doesn’t know any better. I pour somecereal into a plastic cup and hand it to her for breakfast on the go.
“Laney, could you find Ben and make sure he brushes histeeth, please?” I call. “Laney?” There’s no response. I try a few more times. “Laney?”My mantra eventually brings Ben in from the den.
“Where’s Laney?” I ask the kids, looking around. Thealready cluttered kitchen is now covered with breakfast detritus. Laundry ispiled by the basement door, ready for washing. “Where’s dad?”
“Dad said he had to go make money,” Becca replies. “Isthat what he doos at work? Makes things?”
“That’s not quite what he does, Bec. He’s trying tostart a new company, a graphic design start-up. All by himself. It’s very hardwork.”
“Dad says it’s risky, but it’s better than working forsomeone else,” Ben adds sagely.
“And dad is right about that,” I say, trying to soundoptimistic as my brain focuses on the adjective risky.
“Which is why it’s good to have a teacher in the family!” mykids say in unison.
I roll my eyes. “Doug!” I call up the stairs. My husbandbelieves that if he brainwashes our children, I, too, will eventually fall forhis propaganda surrounding the necessity of my stagnant career.
“He went to work, I told you that.” Becca goes to thefront door and licks the glass heartily, like it’s an ice-cream cone.
“Ew, stop! Gross!” I pull her away and wipe the salivawith my sleeve. “Ben, where are your sneakers?” He stares blankly at the floor,as if they
