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“You already got me presents,” I said, taking it from her.
“I know. But this one was a little extra special and custom ordered. Hence it taking so long,” she said, reaching above us to put on the light as we sat in traffic. “Open it,” she demanded.
The tape had already been cut, so I pulled the flaps open to reveal… a silver belt buckle.
Then it took me all of ten seconds to recognize what it was on it.
Her fingers.
Like they were pulling me by the belt buckle.
When I looked over, there was a devilish little smirk on her face.
“I had to send in pictures and everything, so they got it just right,” she said.
“I fucking love it,” I said, reaching over to grab the back of her neck, pulling her in for a kiss.
Long and deep.
Then getting a little more heated than was probably appropriate, given our location.
“Okay,” Avery said, giving me a hazy-eyed smile. “I am starting to see why a date night is important.”
“Gotta keep the fire burning if you want four more babies in the future,” I reasoned.
“It’s a shame it’s too soon to start again.”
“Hey, no one says we can’t practice until then.”
So then we did.
After a nice dinner, then saying goodbye and thanks to my mom and aunts, and checking on the baby… twice… we went to bed and reminded each other about all the love and passion that had taken us from a family of two, to three.
Avery - 18 years
“You know, I wasn’t thinking about this part when I insisted on five kids,” I said, turning toward the staircase, sucking in a deep breath, and bellowing, “I said turn it down, damnit!”
I tried not to curse when the kids were little.
But we had a house full of teenagers now. Some who were even trying their own hand at swearing. So, yeah, that old rule had gone out the window a while back.
I mean, I really, really tried not to swear at the kids. Even when they deserved it. Like now. When I’d demanded the music be turned down no less than four times, and each time, it kept creeping back up to the same decibel it was at when I first yelled.
I’d tried to be nice about it.
But we had neighbors.
And given their father’s, you know, career, we really didn’t want the cops showing up at our door.
“She’s going through an annoying phase,” our eldest daughter declared as she walked past, reading a book.
She was a voracious reader. I had no idea where that came from, since neither Emilio or I were really into books, but it was a good vice to have, I guessed, so I was endlessly giving her money to go to Strand or whatever indie bookstore was calling to her that week.
The daughter upstairs with the ear-splitting screamo music was absolutely going through something. Whether it was a “phase,” or simply an issue with friends or that boy she liked was anyone’s guess.
“You should call Aunt Mira,” my youngest daughter suggested. Two boys, three girls. It was a good mix.
That was a good suggestion.
Their Aunt Mira had never changed, had always been a straight-shooter, cutting through all the bullshit, getting to the point. If anyone was having an issue with one of their kids not wanting to talk to them about something, Mira was called to the rescue. She had more of a friendlike approach with them, less like a parent.
“I mean, she has headphones,” our younger son said, shaking his head. “Why doesn’t she use them?”
Because she was making some sort of angsty teenage point, it seemed.
I was trying not to be too harsh about it. I hadn’t been allowed to go through any sort of phase as a teenager. Frank had a zero tolerance mindset about anything to do with my “moods.” And I wanted my kids to have freedom to feel what they needed to feel when they needed to feel it.
But, God, couldn’t they feel it in a way that didn’t give me a nagging headache that had been going on for days?
Somehow, above all the thrashing drums, and ear-splitting screamed lyrics, I could hear the familiar whistle as Emilio came in the door.
And, despite all the years of hearing it, it still put a little smile on my face each time.
“I hear the concert is still ongoing,” he said, coming into the dining room with several boxes of pizza, somehow intrinsically knowing that I hadn’t gotten anything in the oven or on the stove yet.
The day had gotten away from me.
House managing was very different with seven people in the house instead of two, like the early days. Sure, the kids were old enough now that I’d put my foot down and forced them to do their own laundry—yes, even the boys, because I refused to raise sons who didn’t have basic life skills—and, yeah, they did help out here and there. But it was still seven people dropping hair and bringing in dust.
