Since preschool, the Boy has known and been friends with a boy we affectionately call ManChild. He’s always been a big old lummox. In third grade, the Husband came through the front door, looked at the array of shoes that had been kicked off upon entering, and seeing ManChild’s size twelves, wondered what man was wandering around the house. ManChild is now 15, six foot four (or more?), and wears boats for shoes.
So, the family of ManChild has always been a trip to observe. The dad is equal parts kicked-back and overwhelmed, the two little sisters (one of whom is known as DemonSeed) are wild as March hares, and the mom is sweet but daffy. The maternal grandmother, who has dementia, also lives in the house. To add to the confusion, three of the four females (sister/mom/grandmere) all have the same name.
We are truly fond of the family. Although there was a collective sigh of relief from preschool administration and staff when ManChild moved on to first grade, he has (for the most part) grown out of his early wildness. He still indulges in brief anger fits when thwarted, which quickly turn to sulks, but that’s a big improvement to ten years ago. When he gets mad/sulks on the lacrosse field, the older guys tell him to shut up and play. With their help, we’re hoping he makes the next bump up in maturation.
DemonSeed has terrorized everyone around her for years. My primary memory of her is when she was four and five, during lower school ceremonies (Veteran’s Day; Lessons & Carols; end-of-year awards). Periodically you would hear her very loud voice demanding something of her mother, then screaming up and down the center aisle. Quite disconcerting when mid-prayer. My husband’s favorite story about DemonSeed was watching her at our local youth association’s gym during the boys’ basketball games. DS would run up to random ice chests, open them, and help herself. When one girl (three years older than DS) attempted to protect her brother’s team’s snacks, the DS shoved her to the ground and ran off with two Gatorades. DS’ dad ran up to my husband, wallet in hand, and asked if we’d been ransacked. At the same time, another dad came up to complain that some wild girl had just taken his kids’ drinks. Amid howls of slightly inappropriate laughter, Husband said, “Thing One, meet Thing Two”.
The youngest girl is five, and feral. She doesn’t have her siblings’ genetic tendencies to plow over everyone/thing in her path while screaming at the top of her lungs, but is starting to pick up some of the behavior (which, after all, pays off in the family). She is always barefoot and grubby, and trailing around unattended (although ManChild and his friends watch out for her). She’s adorable.
Everyone’s instinct is to blame the mom for the wildness of her kids, but I can’t go there. She is sweet, clueless, clearly overwhelmed, and quite oblivious to her children’s antics. After knowing her more than a decade, I recently realized something else: she reminds me of my mother. They were both handed three headstrong, energetic, intelligent kids– and both were routed from the get-go. They never had a chance.
Plus I realized something else: I was that feral child. Always barefoot, grubby, and trailing around after older siblings. I even had a rat’s nest in my hair that lasted about three weeks before my sister held me down and cut it out. The mantra of the youngest child– Shut Up, Put Up, and Keep Up– or be left. But as I always say, I’m just glad they had me!
