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“Who you calling old?” Grant says. “You’re old enough to be my father-in-law.”
“Ouch,” Dad says, “Low blow.”
“Hike!” Malcolm calls. Grant lunges forward, twists his body, and avoids Dad’s block. He runs a few feet out, turns around, but the ball never flies his direction. Instead, Malcom hands it to his brother and then steps in front of Dad to keep him from catching Jeremy as he runs as fast as his little legs will take him. I see Mom run in front of Jeremy, and I let out a laugh as she sighs, rolls her eyes, and makes only a show of trying to stop him.
“No fair!” she says to Malcom.
Malcom shrugs and says it’s just strategy. I laugh again at the strategy of giving the five-year-old the football. He’s right, though. Both Dad and Mom would rather let their grandson run for a touchdown than stop him. Marissa, however, has no such restraint. She runs up to her brother, throws her arms around him and lifts him high into the air. He squeals and struggles but immediately plays along when Mack starts off in his sportscaster’s voice. “Oh! It looks like number twelve took a hard hit. We don’t know if he’s injured yet, but we’ll have to hope for the best folks. Vicious tackle by the young rookie Marissa Boogie-Speed Stone.”
Marissa looks proud. Mack says, “I said a vicious tackle.” Marissa smiles and he says, “That’s right. A tackle, which means Marissa and Jeremy are on the grass and not dancing on the lawn.”
Jeremy finally squirms free. He doesn’t run for the goal like, though. He falls down dramatically and groans, “What a vicious tackle!” in his adorable five-year-old voice.
“Okay, everyone,” Dad says, “Good play. That’s a first down.”
They line up again and Grant says, “Old men are sitting this one out.” He jogs to the barbecue grill and blows me a kiss on the way. I think I blush like I’m a cheerleader in high school or something and he’s the star quarterback.
Dad walks up and says, “Hello, princess.”
“Hi, Daddy,” I say.
He gives me a kiss on the cheek and says, “Wrong princess.” I chuckle as he leans down and takes Samantha from my arms and kisses her before handing her back to me. “But hello princess to you, too.”
“Hello again, Daddy,” I say.
“I better make sure those knuckleheads aren’t screwing up the food,” he says. He walks past me, and I follow him at a slight distance. My second child, Robert, flips burgers with the kind of serious attention that pretty much characterizes everything he does. I swear that boy will watch the Three Stooges or the Marx Brothers and study their performances and their comedy tactics without the slightest squeak of laughter the whole time. He’s thirteen years old and a sophomore in high school. His teachers want to just graduate him next year but neither Grant nor I are ready to let him go to college at fourteen. We’re just waiting for him to find an interest that isn’t intellectual.
I suppose we’ll have to relent and let him take online classes when the time comes. I just can’t believe how fast he’s growing up! How fast they’re all growing up.
I think I understand now why it was so hard for my father to accept me and Grant at first. Oh, I’m sure part of it is his very natural concern that an older man impregnated his eighteen-year-old daughter, but I think most of it is just difficulty letting go. I’m having a hard enough time with my sons as it is…and they’re only fifteen and thirteen!
Grant reaches Robert, claps him on the back, and then kneels at the cooler. He opens it, retrieves a few beers, and tosses one to Dad. I change direction to go sit down at the picnic table with the twins. Gracie and Hannah are busy with their newest creation. Gracie works with a sketchpad and Hannah translates her rough drawings into digital art. Samantha’s infant carrier is on the table next to them and I set her down and then slide next to Gracie. “What are you guys working on now?”
“Blathnor the Angry,” Hannah says without looking up.
I can’t help but laugh. “Blathnor the Angry?” The drawing looks like a combination of a koala bear and a bluebird. It’s very good, far better than I can remember being able to draw at nine years old. Hell, it’s far better than I can draw now.
“His life’s purpose is to avenge the destruction of his home, the Island of Blathnoria. It sunk into the sea when Mathering Melvin cast a spell to fight off the armies of Clam Wennwick,” Grace says.
“Except,” Hannah says, “that’s not what happened at all. What really happened is Kelptran Underbrown arranged the Island’s destruction and set off the explosives just as Melvin cast the spell.”
“Yeah, because he wanted Melvin to be blamed,” Grace adds.
“Why did he want to blame Melvin?” I ask with a laugh.
“Because everyone loves Mathering Melvin, and Kelptran got jealous.”
They never look up from their drawings as they keep talking about the world they’ve created. They don’t call their conversation about the history of their fantasy world a history or an explanation. They use the wordlore. So far, they have about seventy-three characters. The main character doesn’t have a strange name. The main character is just Roger. He doesn’t have a last name because nobody knows who his parents are. I guess that might be revealed in the last volume.
Last volume of the video game, not books. This is all for a video game world they’re creating. If they get straight A’s this semester, we’ll buy them an online programming course so they can learn how to bring the video games to life.
“Are you crude enough to drink right from the bottle?” Grant asks. I look up and he hands me a single serving bottle of white wine.
“Oh, I’m a tramp that way,” I say with a laugh. Remarkably, I hear Hannah kind of snort at my comment and Grace giggles.
“Do you girls want a lemon lime soda you can pretend is an energy drink?” he asks. Both of them giggle and for the first time look up from their artwork. They adore him, and I adore that they adore him. He stares at them with an exaggerated show of interest, and they giggle some more. “I’m gonna need an answer,” he says, “So press the B button or something.”
Hannah stares seriously at him and very slowly and exaggeratedly says, “Ha. Ha. Ha.”
