The Cup

Wars between our children start over the simplest things. 

They begin with the breaking of treaties between siblings and the shattering of the peace. Usually by way of insult, such as "Your face is a gray fart." 

From there, things move swiftly to hand-to-hand combat, with the slapping and pounding of opponent's flesh with open hands and closed fists. And then actual weapons are procured and volleyed. Such as pillows.

Or complete dollhouses. 

It is a swift escalation and no accords are reached until at least one of the combatants is bleeding internally or black-and-blued in some noticeable way. 

I turn to a recent conflict for my example. A conflict that arose from a cup. 

A plastic 6-ounce cup. 

A cup I said. 

We, like any family with multiple children under the age of, say, 21, keep in our cupboard a variety of plastic cups for the kiddos. None are plain old cups because while we may be poor, we're not boring. Our poverty is, at least, colorful.

No, our cups are either an assortment of faded pastels or they feature the imprints of various cartoon characters from their favorite movies. Like Belle from Beauty and the Beast, or Buzz Lightyear or Scooby Doo. And all of them, each one, has the chewed-edge markings of years of abuse from the mouths of babes. We will never need dental records. The authorities can just take our cups.

Our cupboard is overrun with them, and none stack easily with the others. Because of this, they are thrown into the cupboard recklessly and therefore tumble out and onto the floor every time the door is opened. Even our cups don't get along.

Each child has his or her favorite, of course. And I can never remember what they are because remembering is a Corrine thing, not a me thing. I'm not a remember-er. I'm a forget-er. This is one of many irritants for my kids: my lack of remembering anything, including their names, their birthdays, the names of their stuffed animals, or what curb I kick them to whenever I take them to the city.

At every meal the routine is the same. The food is piled onto little round plates, silverware is placed, and the cattle are called to dine. They toss whatever they're doing in the living room up into the air above their heads, shout "Huzzah!" and then sprint to the kitchen. This primes the pump of the coming conflict. Because while it has nothing to do with the actual engagement later on, the mad dash to the kitchen to be first always involves a physical melee. And physical melees are like doing a slow lap around the field before the actual game in order to loosen you up. Melees, therefore, are not to be confused with all-out combat. Melees are skirmishes fought in a confined area, like a doorway or a bath tub. Combat is full engagement fought across great expanses, like grocery store aisles or high school football stands.

The children converged at the door simultaneously and, shoulder-to-shoulder-to-shoulder, forced their way in. All arms and mouths. Abusing each other with elbows thrown into ribs and accusations hurled at faces.

In fact, these episodes become a case study in dialectic inflection. Where you place the emphasis in the delivery of your argument makes all the difference in conveying the force of said argument.

"I'm sitting in the first stool, Griffin!" Gabrielle said. This means she is the center of the universe and is entitled to the best seat at the table.

"I'm sitting in the first stool, Gabi!" Griffin said. This means this particular stool is the center of the universe and its lower-class cousins, stools two and three, are for stupid girls like Gabi or Bailey.

"I don't like broccoli," Bailey said. This means the food is paramount, and if it makes him barf, the stool upon which he sits won't matter. His life will still suck.

"Knock it off!" one of us shouted above the din, because we abandoned the principles of reasoning and redirection long ago for the more primal response of grunting and shouting and swearing and spitting. If we had clubs we would use them.

(Dear educators, mandated reporters, and self-nominated parents of the year: this is a work of nonfiction sprinkled with satire and exaggeration by a lazy, untrained, non-professional, beer-drinking father of 8. It is up to you to figure out which parts are true and which are bullshit. See: #getalife).

Arms were unwound, voices were deescalated, seats were taken at the counter. Mom and Dad got their own plates ready and, once seated themselves, got the call that parents always get just after they've sat down.

"Can I have a drink." one of the children said. It's never a question, because the voice doesn't rise at the word drink, it lowers, which denotes a statement. Everything I've learned about the parts of speech I've learned from the masters: Strunk, White, Turner, Turner and Turner.

"Eat some food first," Corrine said.

"We have eaten some food," one of the children said.

"Eat some of the food from this meal," I countered.

"I eating," Bailey offered, then showed us a mouthful of pureed mash to prove it.

"But we're thirsty," another child whined.

"Jesus Christ," Corrine said. "It's alright. It's not like I wanted to eat today anyway." And she dropped her fork onto her plate, hoping the dramatic clang of it would in some way fling the children into dark pits of guilt. It didn't. That only works on me.

"I'll do it," I said, stopping her with a raised palm.

"No, I'm up already."

"I'm closer to the refrigerator," I said, and suddenly we're Olympic speed walkers, bumping into each other on the way toward the cupboard just to prove who could be the World's Biggest Martyr.

"I said I'll do it," she stormed ahead, taking the lead position. I reined her in by grabbing her shirt tail and swinging past her, a whip-it maneuver I saw in a roller derby movie once.

"I'll get the drinks," she barked.

"I'll get the drinks," I responded. Emphasizing two words in a sentence almost never fails to win the argument. My father was a master at this.

"In or out," he would say. Or "Feed the dog," or "Go to bed."

The children, meanwhile, watched us with eyes as wide as their mouths, the same way they watch our two male dogs hump each other in the back yard.

I swung the door to the cupboard open and plastic tumblers flew out at me like sprung birds. I chose the first three at my feet and left the others to be picked up later.

"I want the race car," Griffin said.

"I want the ballerina," Gabrielle said.

"Me too," Bailey said.

"You want a ballerina?!" Griffin teased and laughed. When he laughs, he throws his head back and opens his mouth wide. He's missing the teeth between the incisors so he looks like a bat. This is an image that recurs in my dreams and wakes me: Griffin standing at my bedside, fangs exposed, laughing at my expanding bald spot. I just know he's going to go for the neck one of these nights.

"No!" Bailey said, and food fell from his mouth back onto his plate.

"Ewww!" Gabrielle shrieked. "Bailey is eating with his mouth open again!"

Bailey laughed and scooped up the food and shoveled it back in. 

"Ewwwwwwww!" both Gabrielle and Griffin screamed. The dogs bolted.

"Knock it off!" I shouted.

I lined up the cups next to each other on the counter and fetched the milk from the refrigerator. I poured equal amounts, more or less, into each cup. Because if you don't my children become chemists and measure each quantity to prove just how unjust I am. It's not a fair jury, either. What they don't realize is that each cup is a different height and width. We have squat, fat cups; long thin cups that expand in width toward the rim; and cups that are equal in circumference top to bottom. To pour equal amounts means using the time-measured practice of counting to four and stopping.

 "I want the race car," Griffin said.

"I want the ballerina," Gabrielle said.

"Me too," Bailey said.

"I heard you!" I barked.

There was no race car or ballerina cup. There was a Cinderella cup, a Lego Movie cup, and a generic green cup. I handed them out according to the order in which I had them lined up on the counter and corresponding to what order the children were sitting around the counter: Griffin, Gabrielle and Bailey.

"The princess cup?!?" Griffin yelled.

"Legos?!?!" Gabrielle yelled.

"Woo hoo! Milk!" Bailey yelled.

"Just drink it," I warned them as I walked back to my own meal.

"The princess cup?!?" Griffin shouted again.

"Heh heh hee," Gabrielle snickered. "Griffin got the princess cup."

"Shut up Gabi!"

I whipped around and they became statues in a museum. I turned back to my food.

Corrine, sitting across from me and therefore facing the criminals, ignored them by looking out the window. She ate and stared, lost in whatever world she saw out there. Because what we've learned is that there comes a moment in every day that the best way to face tough parenting situations is to pretend we are not parents anymore. To turn inward and make believe we're 18 again and sitting in a high school guidance counselor's office, saying "I'll join the Marines. Anything. Please???"

Here is when the war began. When the UN Security Council is daydreaming over cold plates of broccoli and cheese casserole, the troublemakers start throwing it at each other.

Over a princess cup.

I whipped back around to catch Griffin just as he was reaching across his plate to punch Gabrielle in the temple. Gabrielle, flinching, caused her fork to catapult across the counter and to the floor. The dogs converged on it and began fighting over its tines like they'd not been fed in years. Gimli, the pug, growling and licking and growling. 

"Knock it off!" I shouted. I jumped out of my chair and began to approach. I was met by Bailey, who intercepted me. 

"I done," he said hopefully. He had cleared his plate of the cheese, leaving the broccoli.

"Really?" I said. He slunk back onto his chair and pouted over his plate.

"I hate broccoli. I not live here no more!"

"Fine. I'll pack your bags for you," I said, continuing toward Griffin and Gabrielle, who were now taking full swings at each other and shouting.

"STOP. HITTING. ME!" Griffin yelled, swinging away.

"YOU'RE. HITTING. ME!" Gabrielle said, her head tucked into her chest to avoid his blows, her own fists thumping Griffin in the shoulder and side. Seated as they were, their torsos twisting and turning, they looked like featherweight wheelchair boxers.

"KNOCK. IT. OFF!" I bellowed.

I grabbed Griffin's arm in mid swing and lifted him off the stool. I planted him on his feet and pointed down to him.

"What is the matter with you?!?"

Through tears he claimed Gabrielle was teasing him about the princess cup.

"Who cares?!?" I shouted. "It's just a cup!"

"I don't like that cup."

"I don't care, Griffin. Get up there, finish your supper and drink your milk."

"I go live with Aunt Annette," grumbled Bailey.

"Shut your mouth, Bailey!" I said. He crossed his arms and began biting them.

"Bite yourself. I don't care. It doesn't hurt me."

Bailey stopped biting himself, buried his chin into his chest and glared at me. 

Gabrielle snickered.

"Something funny?" I asked her.

She didn't answer.

I took the princess cup and placed it in front of her. I gave Griffin the Lego Cup.

"Nooooo!" she protested.

"Heh heh hee," Griffin sneered.

"Knock it off, Griffin!" I shouted.

"Harumph," grumbled Bailey, kicking the counter. I pointed sharply at him. He stopped harumphing.

"The princess cup is for girls!" Gabrielle said.

"You're a girl!" I explained.

"I'm not a princess girl!"

"Yes you are," Griffin said with a bat grin.

"So help me God, Griffin," I said to him.

"Shut up Griffin!" Gabrielle shouted.

"Broccoli," Bailey sneered, poking the food in his plate.

"I'm going to make you eat that plate," I warned him. He glowered back.

Gimli snipped at Sammy, who tucked tail and trotted away. The fork was lodged beneath the refrigerator and Gimli was becoming apoplectic. His flat face made it impossible for him to reach it. I bent over, tore the fork out from beneath the refrigerator, stood up and brandished it at the children like a man fending off wolves.

"If you three don't shut up and eat your food, drink your milk, and stop touching each other ..."

The kitchen went silent. The three froze, staring. I don't know if it was the bent tines of the fork, or the fact that my right eye was twitching, but they stopped what they were doing.

"Eat. Your. Supper," I fumed.

I turned slowly, walked back to my seat, sat down and began eating my supper. I didn't care that it was now cold. I didn't even care that I was using that bent fork.

Peace at any price. That is our motto.

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Sugar and Demons

The littles attended a Halloween festival this past weekend at their grandparents' seasonal campground. The festivities were replete with ill-fitting costumes, camper-to-camper panhandling for candy, a Haunted Hayride and the kind of late-night engorgement of sugar that always leads to arm-flailing rage. By the parents.

Why, you ask, would they have Halloween in August? Because this campground is cool. It does thematic weekend events for kiddos all summer long. For example, they held Thanksgiving in July where children were separated into groups of Pilgrims, who wore the traditional L.L. Bean limited edition black and white garb we've all come to associate with Pilgrims (all covered in the company's lifetime return policy of course); and Wampanoags, who wore buckskins recovered from a deer that a drunken camper ran over the week before with his golf cart. The Wampanoag children served the Pilgrims a hearty gluten-free turkey dinner and the Pilgrims gave the Natives smallpox. Just like the good old days when America wasn't yet overrun by all those pesky immigrants from, you know, Ireland. And Africa.

Speaking of Ireland. They say we get our Halloween traditions from the Irish and their festival of Samhain. Which is pronounced sah-win, for those among you who just happened to have attended a high school that offered Gaelic but have forgotten all you learned, or who are pathetically nerdy enough to give a shit about the Gaelic pronunciation of a word you will never use in conversation. Even when you're drunk, horny and trying to pick up a girl in a Southie baah.

Good old Samhain, to whom all parents in modern-day America can raise the middle finger for justifying the celebration of the dead, the dying, the undead, the tortured-to-death and the disemboweled, all in the name of  Ju-Ju-Bes, candy corn and Tootsie Rolls. They say they practiced Samhain to celebrate the end of the harvest and the end of the year, a time when the crossover to the dark days of winter presented a thin veil that allowed for spirits of the dead to pass through and return to their homes. Samhain appeased those spirits with fires and celebrations in order to maintain stability for the coming long months of winter. It was a form of exorcism.

Bailey, who is Irish; as well as Gabrielle and Griffin, who are a quarter Irish; and Maren, who is part Native American, won the weekend's prize for "closest blood relative to heathen enemies of the Church." They were given crucifixes and made to feel guilty for 10 minutes of every year alive.

Corrine, who is in charge of everything, dressed our little Pagans in costumes and materials found in our home. Because we are cheap and do not believe in giving them hope. We believe that someday they will come to appreciate poverty as much as we do and that they will embrace it with open arms and empty wallets. For example, we have them each drive our soon-to-be repossessed car around to the back of the house where the tow truck cannot see it. In this small way they learn that it's ok when things go badly and you need to say "Fuck You" to the man...or to people to whom money is owed and who are just doing their jobs.

Bailey was dressed as Iron Man, the same suit he has worn since we adopted him. We call him "High-water Iron Man", a joke lost on him. What? He's Irish. He doesn't fucking care so long as he gets his Guinness. And cabbage.

Gabrielle was dressed as Medusa, a character she requested to be.

Medusa.

My 8-year-old knows who Medusa is. I love her.

And Griffin decided to be a boxer. He had a six-pack, a boxer's robe, and his knuckles were taped in white gauze, just like a very short Robert De Niro as Jake LaMotta in Raging Bull. We called him Raging Hobbit and he punched every tree he came up against. The kid is a contender.

Trick or Treating began at around dusk, just like it does for other Satan worshipers on October 31. The kids set out from their grandparent's campsite, treat bags in hand, costumes secured with glue gun and tape. And, like normal Halloween, what started as a slow stroll together as loving siblings turned into a verbally abusive, sprinting, blood-letting free-for-all. How quickly they turned on one another. How quickly we, as parents, came to hate them.

"Griffin, don't walk through people's gardens," we said.

"Gabrielle, don't slap Griffin's ass because he deserves it," we said.

"Bailey, don't point and shout 'How you like me now?!?' to perfect strangers. It scares them and makes us want to send you back to Jesus," we said.

I understand their excitement. I was a kid once, too. I went out with my sister every year to the homes that line Pleasant Street, Norway, wearing costumes thrown together in 10 minutes by mom, carrying our pillow cases as candy receptacles. It was a heavenly time. Dad driving the Plymouth station wagon, stopping in front of houses every two yards to the screeching strains of brake calipers on the verge of collapse, the snow forming ice on the windshield too heavy for the wipers to disperse, because back before global warming it snowed starting on Labor Day. Alison and I were not allowed to bicker. Not like kids today. Nor were we allowed to eat the spoils of our plunder when we got home. We argued with Mom later when Dad was upstairs.

"Just one piece!" we demanded of her.

"No!" she said.

"We won't ask for any more ALL MONTH!" we hoped she didn't realize that a new month started at midnight. Yes, we were once retarded. Just like you.

"If you ask me again I'll get your father."

We of course shut up then, whimpering bitterly, and went to bed without candy. Or pillow cases, now that I recall.

In 2014, in a campground in Maine at the end of August, kids are allowed to eat all the shit they want. I'm not sure if that's an indication of the degradation of parenting, or the recognition by our generation that kids eating candy right after trick or treating is not going to expedite the disintegration of tooth enamel. Like waiting 30 minutes to go swimming after eating, the candy rule seems a bit mythological and fascist to me.

We finished our rounds, hitting every campsite in the campground, and egging those who were shuttered (Corrine's idea. She had a bitter childhood).

At 8, on the nose, we sauntered up to the campground store where we stood in line to await the hayride. An ingenious idea, when you consider it properly: sitting on hay bales, one of the least stable and most uncomfortable platforms for one's ass, on a wagon pulled by a pick up truck, in the dark woods among seizure-inducing strobe lights and screaming adults.

The line for the wait was, itself, horror-filled. At least for Corrine and I. The kids were tired. Their bedtime, 7:30, long abandoned. They had dark circles under dark circles. Bailey, when not medicated and in bed by then, becomes an asshole. That's the psychological term. I don't know the layman's expression.

Griffin and Gabrielle, meanwhile, become slap-happy and whiny, respectively. And the Turner triumvirate, together, as if angels from Hell, exposed to the world their true natures, erasing all the platitudes they'd received from the ignorant, the blind, and their grandparents.

"Griffin, stop throwing rocks at your sister's ass," we said.

"Gabrielle, stop telling people you have fart bubbles," we said.

"Bailey, stop. Licking. Your. Fucking. Friends."

We said.

Our turn on the hayride came third. Sometime near 1 a.m., I think, when even the goddamn vampires fled from fear of the vile natures of our children. Gabrielle insisted on sitting next to me. Griffin, next to her, but next to Corrine on his other side. Bailey sat somewhere down wind, near the back, chewing the ear off a teenage girl who, I felt, deserved to feel uncomfortable. She looked like the kind of teenage girl who rejected me in high school. Bitch.

"You wanna see my sah-win?" I heard him ask at one point. That kid rocks. When he isn't sniffing his own toe jam.

I'll spare you the details of the ride itself. It was well-done. Loud, gory, and with just enough scare in it to make Gabi and Griffin cry, which in turn made Corrine and I laugh with crazy-person glee. The kind of tension-releasing laugh that comes rarely. Usually at the end of a trying day, the end of a difficult stretch, the end of a period of time when it just seems everything the children do is a purposeful test of our resolve and sanity.

Sometimes, you just need a Samhain, a sah-win, a festival that appeases the demons, if only in your soul. A hardy laugh at the expense of children can do that. Exorcise the mischievousness from them. Put into perspective that they, after all, are sometimes under the influence of something otherworldly, but cherubs at heart nonetheless.

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