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My youngest nephew, Spencer, my oldest brother Connor’s son, wrinkles his nose at me from the kitchen table. “You smell, Uncle Garrett.”
Puppies learn how to be dogs by roughhousing with bigger dogs. Boys work the same way.
“Yeah—like a winner.” I haul him out of the chair, lift him up, and rub my damp, sweaty head on his face. “Here, get a better smell.”
He squeals, then laughs as he pushes me away.
On either side of Spencer’s chair are his two older brothers—thirteen-year-old Aaron, whose light-brown, John Travolta, Saturday Night Fever-era hair needs a trim, and the middle child, in every sense of the word, Daniel.
Yes, they named him Daniel Daniels—I don’t know what the fuck my brother was thinking—they might as well have tattooed a target on his forehead. His middle name is Brayden, so we all call him that.
At the other end of the table are my nieces—my brother Ryan’s daughters—the pretty, perfect little girls my mother always prayed for. Thirteen-year-old Josephina and seven-year-old, curly-haired Francesca—also known as Joey and Frankie.
I pour myself a cup of coffee while my mom slices and butters bagels and passes them out to the kids.
Then my petite, dark-haired sister-in-law comes walking down the hall from the bathroom, clapping her hands at the children. “Come on, kids, eat quick. We’re going school shopping and we gotta get going.”
She’s Ryan’s wife. Angelina Bettina Constance Maria, maiden name Caravusio.
She’s just a little bit Italian.
Angela’s a Jersey transplant—her family moved here from Brooklyn her junior year in high school. Her and my brother got together that same year and haven’t been apart since.
“I don’t wanna go,” Brayden whines. “I wanna stay at Nana and Pop’s and play Xbox.”
Angela shakes her head. “Nana has Club today. Your dad’s going to pick you up at my house this afternoon after his meeting.”
That would be Connor’s meeting with his divorce lawyer.
My brother’s an attending ER doctor at Lakeside Memorial. He’s been living at my parents’ house for the last few months—since his wife, Stacey, told him she didn’t want to be married to him anymore. Ouch. Fifteen fucking years—up in smoke. While they’re separated, she’s got the house—a five-bedroom McMansion on the newer, fancier side of town—and he’s got the kids every other weekend.
My little brother, Timmy, walks in through the sliding glass door from the backyard.
“Hey, Pop.” He smirks, “You’ve got some crab grass growing out by the tree. You really should get on it.”
That my father can hear.
He springs out of his recliner and heads to the garage to get his crab grass spray.
There’s a two-year age difference between my oldest brother, Connor, and my next older brother, Ryan. And there’s another two-year difference between me and Ryan. The third time was definitely the charm for my parents, and they frankly should’ve quit while they were ahead.
But, seven years later, my mom wanted to give it one last try for a girl. And that’s how we got Timmy.
Timmy’s kind of a dick.
Don’t get me wrong—he’s my brother—I love him. But he’s immature, selfish, basically . . . a dick.
“You’re kind of a dick, man.” I tell him because we both know there’s not a blade of crab grass on my father’s lawn.
He laughs. “That’s what he gets for not letting Mom get me that Easy-Bake Oven I wanted when I was ten.”
Like a lot of guys of his generation, my father is a staunch believer in separate toy aisles for boys and girls and never the two shall meet. He thinks progressive is a brand of soup.
Unlike my niece Frankie, who looks at me determinedly and announces, “I want to play football, Uncle Garrett.”
This is not news to me. She’s been saying she wants to play football—like her uncles, and her cousins—since she started talking. She’s the one who watches the games on Sunday with my brother while wearing her pink Giants jersey.
“Oh yeah? Have you been working on your kicks?”
She nods enthusiastically and steps back from the table to demonstrate. And she’s not bad—the family football gene didn’t skip her.
I clap my hands. “You can play pop warner when you’re nine.”
Frankie beams, until Angela rains on our future-Heisman parade.
“Knock it off, Garrett. You’re not playing football, Francesca. I’m not spending three thousand dollars on braces so you can get your teeth knocked out of your head.”
Well, that’s offensive.
“You think I’d let my niece get her teeth knocked out?”
Angela points at me. “When you have a daughter, we’ll talk.”
Timmy checks the clock on his phone. “Hey, Mom, I have to get going. Can you get my laundry?”
Yes, my mother still washes his laundry every week. Like I said—dick.
I’m about to tell him to get his own god damn laundry, but Angela beats me to it.
“What the hell is that? Get your own goddamn laundry!”
“She likes doing my laundry!” Timmy argues. “It makes her feel needed.”
