Sitting next to Maren is highly coveted in our home, and the privilege to do so can be as treacherous to my children as it once was for those who sought to be on the right side of emperors and kings. My children will kill each other in order to sit next to her.
Maren is merely 6 weeks old. She can't talk, turn her head very well, or reach out with any reasonably deliberate dexterity to hold your hand, and yet she's treated as the Crown Princess. She has nothing to offer her older siblings in the way of toys or money or advice, but you would think, if you watched the melee that unfolded whenever space opened up next to her, that Maren held in her possession magical powers.
Take one such episode recently as an example.
Any trip into town with my children begins the same way. Corrine's announcement to get their shoes on stirs them to action in the same way, long ago, a Man-O-War's bell-ringing signaled a beat to quarters. It's all hands and feet and running and shouting.
Shoes must be found first, of course, and this takes its toll on couch cushions, chairs, bureau drawers, dogs and any other thing the children swear is where they left them last. And they never find them in pairs. One will be on the top of the refrigerator while the other is next to the toilet, for example.
Once discovered, of course the shoes require untying since the last time they wore them they were double-knotted and then worn in the rain for a full week. This leaves the task of untying them the equivalent to unscrewing a bottle of acetaminophen in the dark with greased hands. This eventually results in shoe-horning the sneakers onto little feet, twisting and turning and bending the ankle to an unnatural angle while the child screams as if being tortured. Which, let's face it, they are. I mean at this point a delirious frustration sets in for the parent and the best way to get to the car is the most expedient way, ankle bones and delicate tendons be damned.
Finally shoed, the children are checked to make sure they're not wearing yesterdays clothes, or today's clothes backwards, or someone else's yesterday clothes. Then and only then are they released simultaneously from the living room and told to get into the car.
This is a running of the bulls meets roller derby. Seemingly as if chased from the living room by a stampede, they carom off furniture and each other, cursing in their own native tongue.
"I hate you stupid head!" is a common refrain.
I placed Maren, already strapped into her car seat, in the car ahead of all of this. In this way I have beat the madding crowd and need not tap dance, with baby in her seat, around the pixie devils hell bent on being first.
Gabrielle is always the quicker of the three and therefore was out in front as ever. Griffin jostled with Bailey in the rear, but not because they're equal in speed, but because Griffin likes to jostle Bailey.
"You're not winning!" Griffin shouted, and then face-slapped his brother. Bailey crumbled to the floor, face on his palm, in faux shock. I say faux because The Red has limited pain receptors and therefore feels very little pain. He once grabbed an electric fence without flinching. I grabbed the same fence - thinking it was off - and the jolt sent me into a fit of profanity that Bailey thought was the funniest thing he'd heard since that time his mother bent over and farted.
Once crumbled, Bailey was now safely in third place. Griffin, satisfied that he'd eliminated one, set his sights on the other: Gabrielle. This is folly. Because no one eliminates Gabrielle. Especially Griffin, her arch nemesis in all things relating to anything, whether truly a competitive sport or not. Hell, they fight over who can chew their supper food faster without vomiting.
To taunt Griffin, Gabrielle paused at the open door and grinned back at her advancing brother. When he reached the door, she sang "La la la laaaa, Lo lo lo looooo," and then slipped through the door and slammed it in his face. The song makes no sense whatsoever, but it pisses Griffin off more than if she had wiped her snot in his eye. Truth be told, the sound of the song makes me want to punch my own sister. So, there is some competitive edge to using it.
He bounced back from the force of the door slamming and immediately filed a complaint.
"GABRIELLE HIT ME IN THE FACE FOR NO SUCH REASON!" he yelled at me with the conviction of a wronged people. No such reason is a term they both picked up years before. We're not sure why. We've speculated that saying No apparent reason was too difficult. Either way, it translates to "That fucker!"
And like all parents who attempt to diffuse a live grenade, I lost a limb.
"She didn't -"
"Gabi threw the door right at my face!"
"Not at your -"
"She's mean! I hate her!"
"You don't -"
"I HATE YOU GABI!!"
And so on and so forth, Griffin relighting and exploding multiple times like one of those infernal candles you can never blow out. He finally stormed out the door and toward the car, where Gabrielle already had staked a claim to the spot next to the baby. This set Griffin over the edge and he resumed his tirade by shouting at the window of the closed door while Gabrielle snickered at him from inside.
Bailey, for his part in the race, remained where he was left crumbled on the floor. He picked grass from his sneakers and sniffed it, a typical race strategy of his that neither his mother nor I have ever comprehended. He's a sniffer, not a fighter, apparently, and for that reason he always ends up last and with Griffin's hand print on his face. But he doesn't care. So really the fight for Maren is only ever between the two youngest.
Once in the car, Bailey took his place in the farthest seat from Maren because he needs a window seat and because sitting between Gabi and Griffin would be the end of him. Gabi, already glued next to Maren, was asked to move.
"I EARNED IT!" she shouted at me.
"Yell at me again and you're in the trunk," I warned.
"That sounds fun!"
"Just move, Gabrielle."
Appeals made to Corrine, about having been the first, and that she's never first and that Griffin is always FIRST and even when she's first she's never FIRST, all failed. Gabrielle stood in a huff.
"Well MOVE Griffin. I can't just sit on your stupid lap!"
Griffin slid beneath his sister to take his post beside Maren, who had been oblivious to everything except the twinkling light design on the ceiling of the car. Gabrielle plopped down and called her brother something that sounded like Rat Bastard. I let it go, because I wanted bliss. I was emitting bliss particles from my soul and my ass because I was ready to kill and counting to 10.
We pulled out and were on our way.
Soon, Bailey breathed, which made Gabrielle irritable.
"He's breathing on me," she complained.
"Just enjoy the ride," Corrine told her.
"I would if Bailey would stop breathing," she replied.
Griffin, meanwhile, was paying attention to Maren.
That is, until Maren vomited. Then he began gagging.
"Mom! Maren - hooah - Maren just puked! Hooah. Can I sit - HOOAH - can I please sit somewhere - HOOOAH - else?!"
Gabrielle laughed. Bailey breathed. Griffin dry heaved.
"You insisted on sitting there, Griffin," I reminded him.
"I know, but not - HOOAHHHH - Not if she was gonna - HOOOOAHHHH - PUKE!!!!"
Corrine swabbed up Maren, who cooed and then fell asleep, while Griffin pinched his nose and little tears fell from his eyes all the way into town.
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