2 am.
In the bathroom, lights out, dogs milling around because where ever I go in the dead of night, they go.
I can't even count the number of times I've tripped over one or both of them while trying to walk to the can, still asleep.
Last evening, I was not only joined by the dogs, but by Stephen, too.
Stephen always turns on the lights.
Always.
And he insists on talking to me, in spite of the very clear fact that I am still sleeping, or am at least not awake enough to engage in any level of cogent conversation.
I am trying to go back to bed. He stops me for a hug. And then we both notice that Keith's shoes are in the hallway.
Meaning Keith is home.
Stephen asks, "Keith's home. Where is he?"
And literally JUST as he asks this critically important question, Keith pops around the corner and begins walking upstairs.
He appeared as if he was in a Harry Potter film, you know, when they apparate out of nowhere, carrying a bowl of cereal, with his "I've been out under the deck" look on his face.
All I know for sure is he absolutely terrified Stephen.
Stephen screamed.
The dogs jumped up like bats out of hell, rushing out of our bedroom ready to take out the evil doer who was causing all this racket.
The cats were clinging to the ceiling, eyes the size of toonies on steroids and shaking within an inch of their lives, puffed up like blowfish.
Em slept through the entire thing.
Years of living with children, on my own, lead me to the conclusion that getting upset about everything is a colossal waste of time.
That isn't to say that I don't get upset, because I do, but I usually don't let the small things bother me.
Stephen, when we first got together, was strung tighter than the wire tightrope walkers walk upon.He is much better now. Years of living with me and the kids and the pets have worn him down a little, like rocks worn down by the ceaseless waves washing over them.
Even if the rocks wanted the water to stop, it wouldn't matter.
The water would just keep coming.
Hence why there is no point getting stressed about things.
For example, the hairballs hacked up during the night, and always placed where you are guaranteed to walk on top of them no longer cause him to force his hand to his face, covering his mouth in an effort to NOT gag.
I used to yell at him to STOP because all that would happen is I will have two messes to clean up instead of just one.It was far worse listening to Stephen gag than to simply get some paper towel, pick up the offending hairball and toss the whole mess in the garbage.
But he would persevere, determined to not be outdone by a soggy, slobber slathered, mucusy hairball.
Until I removed him from the scene, sending him somewhere far, far away so I could clean up the mess.
Tikka, who is almost 13, will occasionally bite off more than she can chew, or her body will simply say that its not feeling the food love and she will promptly rid herself of the offending and half digested food.
This would send Stephen into an apoplectic fit, in part because of the sheer volume of her throw up. . .
. . .but also because of her propensity to throw up in public, or in her mind, the room where the largest number of people have congregated.
My brother had a cat that would do the same thing.
Except he wouldn't vomit or cough up hair balls.
He'd bring my brother dirty underwear to the living room and start "romping" with it.
Give me vomit over a horny cat any day.
Keith, of all the kids, was the once who gleaned the most pleasure from Stephen being wired so tightly.
For example, one day Keith went into the closet, and put his feet into a pair of boots that went up to his knees.He then wrapped himself in a coat, while it was still on the hanger.
From all outward appearances, there was no one in the closet. The boots were standing neatly on the floor, the coat on the hanger.
Stephen goes to said closet, and as he is reaching for his coat, Keith jumps out and yells, "BOO!"
Once I was able to get Stephen off the ceiling, I was able to massage his heart back to beating.
And I made Keith PROMISE to never scare Stephen like that again.
Sometimes Keith would coerce his younger, impressionable younger sister to join him in his antics.
Em adores Keith, and essentially does anything he asks her.
It was no different when she was younger.
Somehow, the two of them managed to squeeze into the linen closet.
Keith was on the floor.
Em was nestled on the next shelf amid the towels, sheets, the heating pad and the hot water bottle.
At least she was able to stay warm and hydrated, because I have no idea how long they were in there before Stephen came along.
He got more than towels when he opened that door, let me tell you.
Eventually, I had to sit down with Keith and explain to him that while I applauded his creativity, he was going to have to start using his powers for good instead of evil.
Because I didn't know how much more Stephen's heart could take.
My brother and I were not immune to the cruel means children use to torment their parents.
But we were old enough to know better.
My mother started wearing a hearing aid when we were in our early teens.
Sometimes, we would mouth words to her, making her think that her hearing aid was turned down to low.
And when she turned it up full blast. . .
You get the picture.
I'm still not convinced my mother needs a hearing aid. I just think that years of very selective hearing had convinced her brain that her ears stopped listening.
But the absolute worst thing my brother ever did to me occurred a couple of years after we had moved out of Oromocto and into a rural community.
My father was adamant that we have a garden.
And more adamant that my brother and I work in the garden.
Whether we wanted to or not. And we definitely did not want to spend our summers pulling weeds and chasing birds away from the peas.
Sometimes, garden work would be family activity.
I would have much preferred a good game of Scrabble, thank you very much.
On this lovely summer evening my brother and father were weeding through the corn.
And my mother and I were a couple of rows over, weeding something else.
My brother called me over.
I went. He was my brother. I tried to be as congenial as possible.
And then the little f***er threw a frog at me.
Until that moment, I had no idea that warp speed was something more than a snazzy means of moving around the universe.
To this day, I don't think I've moved faster.
For WEEKS I refused to go to bed unless my mother came into my room, stripped my bed down and lifted the mattresses to show me that there were no frogs waiting at the bottom of my bed to spend the evening hopping up and down my body, waiting for the opportune moment to hop into my mouth, or try to get up my nose.
To this day I can't stand the site of frogs.
Or snakes.
Or any other thing that needs to slither.
And we don't even use the word s-p-i-d-e-r in this house if Em is within earshot.
Not unless we want to spend our nights sleeping with one eye open and trip wire secured around our room.
The ant in her bellybutton almost put her into a coma.
Once she stopped her tribal ant removal dance that was dizzying in its ferocity.
I didn't even know she could move like that.
Title Lyric: Spiders and Snakes by Jim Stafford
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