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His lip twitches in frustration when the thing keeps bending forward on itself and ruining his reading experience. It’s a daily occurrence, this scene playing out in front of me, but you can’t tell him any differently. He went on a tirade when I suggested using an app on his phone to read the paper. When he balked about wasting good money, I offered to pay for the subscription. The look I got that day was deadly.
“Dad,” I say, pressing my hand to the top of the paper, forcing him to look at me.
Some days, it feels like I have three young children instead of just two.
“We discussed this.”
“We discuss a lot of things,” he says, his brow furrowing when I don’t pull my hand back from the paper.
“You have to log things in the inventory book.”
“That thing’s a pain in the a—” He shifts his eyes to the boys playing with their children-appropriate hardware set, including plastic saws and tiny hammers. “Butt.”
“I’m fine with ordering a new point of sale system, one that not only tracks but also auto orders the things we run out of.”
His eyes narrow at me.
“And I told you we don’t need that.” My father will die on this hill. “It’s a waste of money.”
“We just lost a sale because we didn’t have an item. That’s a waste of money.”
“Old man Prichard doesn’t need any more ten-millimeter sockets. He needs new glasses and a better memory. It’s not our fault that he can’t remember where he puts his tools.”
I take a deep breath, my eyes darting to the ceiling. The dingy tile above our heads is just one more thing I need to add to the list of things to take care of.
“We’ll never be able to sell this place if we can’t get a system that works in place.”
His jaw clenches as he pops his paper one more time, effectively removing me from his line of sight.
“Whoever buys this place will want their own system in place.”
“You’d get a better price if it was turnkey,” I argue, but it’s as if I’m speaking to a brick wall, worse actually, because sometimes walls throw an echo back at you.
Dad just grunts, his way of telling me the conversation is over.
“Dad,” I begin, but a crash in another part of the store draws my attention.
My sly little twins are gone, no longer content to play with their toys behind the counter.
“They’re in the carabiners again,” Dad mutters. “They love those little things.”
I turn away from him and make my way over to the aisle the boys always dart to when I’m not looking.
“Really?” I say when I spot them. “I gave you each three of these to play with.”
“I didn’t have an orange one,” Cale says, holding up the prize in his hand.
“I gave you an orange one,” I remind him, squatting so I can pick up the spilled items.
“You gave Cole two orange ones. I got two blue ones.”
I clear my throat, coming very close to reminding them that I’m not their mother, and they can’t trick me the way they would her. I pay attention to what’s going on, and I’m not as easily manipulated.
“I gave each of you a blue one, a red one, and an orange one. If they got mixed up, all you needed to do was switch them back among yourselves. Now help me get this cleaned up and then I need you guys back behind the counter. The store is dangerous. Lots of things that can hurt you.”
I’m not a helicopter parent. I’m just as eager for my boys to experience life and learn things as they are to make those discoveries, but there are saw blades and a million pointy things in this place that can hurt them. I know just how dangerous it is because I have the scars to show what happens in this place when a kid is left to their own devices.
My father’s motto growing up ofhe has to learnjust doesn’t sit right with me and my own kids.
