Every Sunday night my siblings and I meet at my parents' house for
dinner, and since my sister had Caedan in February the dinner talk has
understandably grown more baby-centric than ever before. The best part
about these conversations is when a typical baby-related topic--toys,
nutrition, safety hazards, etc.--leads my mom to reveal some slightly
sketchy glimpse at how we ourselves were reared. "Oh, Dimetapp always
knocked you kids right out," she might say during a conversation about
fussiness, or, while we're all wondering about the safety of a particular toy,
"Yeah, those seem dangerous, all right . . . but then again, you kids
always had them."
These comments are usually presented as an aside, but they always
bring the conversation to a screeching halt. "You DRUGGED US with
DIMETAPP?!" we'll shout, incredulous. "What were you thinking?!"
But rather than respond to our indignant cries, she just smiles and
says something to the effect of, "You all lived, didn't you?"
For this reason, we've taken to speculating that there were in fact
18 of us kids at one time, and that this number was gradually whittled
down to the current four--the hardy survivors. This would make sense,
except--as my younger sister points out--for one flaw: me.
"There's no way you would have been one of the strongest," she says
every time we mention the Survivor Theory of Parenting. "Not unless
the other 14 were absolutely pathetic."
She has a point.
She's also a bitch.
Recent Comments