Because I’m a Gen X-er. My brothers and I weren’t latchkey kids, but even with a stay-at-home mom, my generation was basically raised to survive a zombie apocalypse.
On our own.
I try my best to pass those life skills—self-sufficiency, responsibility, independence—onto my boys. Aaron doesn’t work during the school year, because he plays football and keeps his grades up, but in the summer he has a part-time job as a lake lifeguard. When Brayden turns fifteen, he’ll find a part-time job too—probably as a junior counselor with Lakeside’s summer rec program.
And when I’m on days at the hospital, I’ve gotten the boys in the routine of coming home from school, doing their homework, and getting dinner started. Nothing fancy or complicated—but I trust that they can manage soup and sandwiches or mac and cheese and a salad—without burning the house down to the ground.
“Dad, please stop buying the crappy fabric softener,” Brayden says, folding his laundry at the opposite end of the kitchen table where I’m currently eating a roast beef sandwich for dinner. “It sucks.”
Parents don’t have favorites—we’d cut open a vein for any of our offspring. But some kids are just easier. Low maintenance. Generally happy and don’t mind doing what they’re told.
They’re not our favorites . . . but they sure are nice to be around.
“I didn’t realize there was a crappy fabric softener, Bray.”
Brayden is my easy kid. It’s unusual for a middle child, but no less awesome. He picks up the ice cubes when they fall on the floor instead of kicking them under the fridge, he’s always liked vegetables, he does his own laundry—and occupies himself so well, most of the time I don’t even know if he’s in the house.
“Good fabric softeners have names,” he explains, looking at me with his mother’s eyes. “Downy, Snuggle, if it just says ‘fabric softener,’ it’s the crappy kind.”
A smile tugs at my mouth. “Got it.”
“Rosie, come iiiinnnnn!” Spencer bellows from the backdoor. Then he bellows at me, “Daaaad, Rosie’s chasing the squirrels again!”
“Just leave the back door open—she’ll come in when she’s ready,” I call back, before quietly adding, “And hopefully alone.”
Because our German Shepherd is the unholy terror of the backyard woodland animals’ lives. She doesn’t mean to be. She just wants to play with them; she thinks they’re her friends. But it never ends well.
“We should put in a doggie door,” Aaron says as Spencer slides into the seat next to him and starts tapping away on his Nintendo Switch. “With a bell, you know . . . to warn them she’s coming.”
“We’ll do it this weekend.” I nod. “And speaking of this weekend, I need you to stay home Friday night.”
Aaron’s head snaps up from his phone.
“I’m supposed to go over to Mia’s.”
Mia is the girl Aaron’s been dating the last few months. They’re not true-love serious like Garrett and Callie were, but she’s nice and they’re going to prom together next month.
“Well, have Mia come here.”
“It blows when we hang out here! Brayden and Spencer won’t leave us alone.”
Aaron is not my easy kid.
“Be that as it may,” I tell him reasonably, “I’ll be out, so I need you to keep an eye on your brothers.”
“They’re old enough to stay home by themselves! You baby them so frigging much.”
Brayden’s fine on his own during the day and he’s responsible enough to make sure Spencer doesn’t jump off the roof or destroy the furniture. But he gets spooked at night—either from covertly downloading the latest Saw movie or reading one too many articles about real-life horror stories on the internet.
“It is what it is, Aaron. Friday night, you’re home—end of discussion.”
But for a seventeen-year-old, the discussion never ends. It just goes on, and on, and on . . .
“So I have to change my plans because you’re going out to get laid?”
I toss my napkin on the table.
“A—knock it off. Now. B—I have a D.U.H. meeting on Friday and then I’m going fishing for Dean’s bachelor party with your uncles.”
Garrett’s best friend, Dean Walker, is like a fourth brother to me and he’s getting married in a few weeks. Dean had more than his share of wild, stripper-filled evenings—and days—before he met his bride-to-be, Lainey. So he opted for a guy’s night out of fishing and beer on a party boat instead.
“I need you here because I’m going to be out on a boat and I don’t want your grandparents having to drive over in the dark if the boys get scared. C—when you’re paying for my car and my car insurance, then I’ll change my plans for you. Until that happens, it’s the other way around.”
This wouldn’t be an issue if Stacey and I were still married, because two is better than one and she’d be home with them. But while living out the Brady Bunch song—four men living all alone—wasn’t what I pictured for them when we had them, I still think we’re doing okay. Better than okay.