4. Chapter Four
Chapter Fou r
Children’s diets should remain consistent with no new foods introduced until their palates are established, which is around the onset of puberty.
A Young Woman’s Guide to Raising Obedient Children
Dr. Francine Pascal Reid, (1943)
“ S o Brit thinks I can drop everything and go to Vegas with her.”
It’s the next night, and I’m perched on a stool in the kitchen watching J.B. prepare dinner. I’m still shaking my head at Brit’s plan for the three of us to spend a weekend in Las Vegas together.
It’s totally unrealistic, and the logistics of figuring out how to make it happen is already giving me a headache. But somewhere, deep inside me, the twenty-five-year-old party Casey thinks a trip like that would be amazing. To get on a plane and take off for a few days…
Impossible. I’m a mother now. Selfless, responsible …
″Sounds like a good idea,” J.B. says.
The twenty-five-year-old party boy is obviously still wide awake inside him.
″What are you talking about? I’ve got the kids to worry about, not to mention my job, which wouldn’t really matter because she’s talking about going for a weekend, but there’s the restaurant and the kids and you…” I list, finishing one hand and starting on the other.
J.B. has a rare Friday night off. He had suggested the two of us going out, but I told him I’d rather stay at home with the kids because I know he likes spending as much time with them as he can.
Plus, if we stay home, that means J.B. will cook.
″It’s her fourth wedding and I’m sure there’ll be more to come. How can she want to go have a big hoopla for something’s that not even going to last?”
Even though the hoopla would be fun while it lasted.
″How do you know it’s not going to last?” J.B. admonishes. “Who’s she marrying this time?”
″Justin somebody. Don’t you love it? Britney and Justin?” I shake my head at J.B.’s blank expression. “Britney Spears and Justin Timberlake? The cutest couple of the 90s? Or maybe it was the 2000s. No? You’re such a boy.”
″You like me being a boy.” He wiggles his eyebrows, making me smile.
″Sometimes. Did I tell you that Sophie told the whole LCBO that Ben has a penis? Why don’t you get outbursts like that?”
″I get outbursts.”
″Do they involve penises and vaginas?”
″Not really, no.”
″I’m going to tell them to come to talk to you when they want to know about sex,” I promise .
″Then our children will never have sex because I’ll put the fear of God into them.”
I sit on the stool at the counter as J.B. pours himself a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon and begins to prepare dinner. I love watching him in the kitchen. The graceful way he moves between counter and stove, the way he cleans up as he goes. Watching his knife fly through the mountain of vegetables, most of which the kids won’t eat.
None of them like the same thing. Carrots and corn and brussels sprouts for Sophie; peppers and tomatoes and celery for Ben; onions and cauliflower for Lucy.
The variety makes for a crowded vegetable drawer in the fridge.
″Do you want wine or should I make you a martini?” J.B. asks.
″It’s Friday night,” I say, leaving out the duh .
He reaches up to the cupboard where we keep the liquor. It’s a good-sized cupboard, considering he used to be a bartender and likes to hone his craft and I like to drink. I quite like being the recipient of his creations.
″Who helped last time?” he mutters to himself as he pulls the gin out of the freezer.
″Ben,” I tell him, thinking back to last Sunday when J.B. gave a Ben a lesson on how to make a whiskey sour.
Yes, our six-year-old children are budding bartenders. They like to help in the kitchen as well, but all three are fascinated by the science of mixology. At least that’s how J.B. justifies it.
″It’s science,” he said last weekend as Ben measured Canadian Club into a shot glass. “It’s not like he’s going to taste it.
I didn’t tell him that I had seen Sophie stick her finger in my drink more than once.
After determining that it’s Sophie’s turn to learn how to make a drink, he calls to her to help him.
″We’re not the best parents, are we?” I ask. “Promoting alcohol?”
″It’s a teachable skill,” J.B. argues with a grin. “Plus, they’re being helpful and considerate, because they know Momma needs a drink after a long week.”
″It’s a life lesson,” I add. “It’s good to know that the three of them will be able to support themselves on a bartender’s salary if we can’t afford to keep them.”
″Why can’t you keep us?” Sophie wonders as her red head pops up on the other side of the counter. “Because if you can’t, I want to live with Cooper. Lucy and Ben will want to live with Aunt Libby, but I want Cooper.”
Along with owning Thrice with J.B., Cooper and his wife Emma used to be our roommates. Or rather, Cooper and J.B. used to be roommates, and I rented out the basement apartment in Cooper’s house. And then Emma moved in. And then J.B. and I had the trips, and it became a very crowded household.
When the kids were about a year and a half, J.B. and I got our own place. Doing the mortgage thing really makes me feel like a grown-up, something J.B. always shakes his head about. “Shouldn’t having three babies make you feel like a grown-up?”
Having three babies makes me feel awesome. And exhausted.
It’s been years, but there are times I miss Coop and Emma being around. We see them all the time, but I really miss Cooper making me breakfast on the weekend. I’ve more than repaid him for the free food he provided for me; when the triplets were two, I agreed to become a surrogate for Emma and Cooper. Atticus and Aiden are now four, energetic and excitable, sweetly adorable with their shock of blond hair and identical features and look more like Emma than Cooper.
The kids adore each other. We’ve always been open with the situation–the boys came from my tummy, but belong to Cooper and Emma–and the kids accept the explanation, even though none of them really understand it.
″I’m sure Cooper’ll be happy to hear that you want to live with him if we get rid of you,” I say to Sophie. “Maybe a little frightened at the quickness of your decision but pleased you picked him.”
″Don’t worry, you’re not going anywhere,” J.B. assured her, setting the jar of olives on the counter.
″Ooh, I love olives.” Sophie beams, rubbing her hands together.
″Since when does she like olives?” J.B. turns to me.
I can’t comment on how a father should know what their children like to eat, because I had no idea Sophie even knew what an olive was.
Actually, she’d helped make martinis before and I like my olives. But I had no idea she knew they were a food to be eaten outside an alcoholic beverage.
″Maybe she had them on the pizza last week?” I guess.
J.B. speared an olive and offered the green globe to Sophie, who plucked it from the fork with relish. “Mmm. More, please.”
″Help me make Momma’s drink first. What’s in a martini?”
I should be afraid if this is what J.B. considers a teachable moment, but I only look at him with love.
He didn’t have to be here. He hadn’t wanted to be a father. Neither one of us planned on a drunken evening between friends resulting in anything more than a fond memory.
When I found out I was pregnant, J.B. hadn’t handled things well, and he’d be the first to admit it. Then, of course, I got mad. And stubborn. The first time he asked me to marry him, I said no.
It hadn’t been much of a proposal. More of a this is what we’re going to do type of conversation, which never goes well for me. I don’t like being told what to do. I even informed J.B. that I expected absolutely nothing from him. I was fully prepared and committed to raising the baby on my own.
Of course, that was back when I had no idea I was carrying triplets.
I’ll always be grateful that J.B. came around. And that I accepted his second proposal. Despite the rocky beginning, J.B. and I have made it work. We have three beautiful children and a happy, albeit a little unconventional marriage.
”James Bond drinks vodka martinis but Momma likes gin,” Sophie answers J.B.’s question.
″That’s right,” J.B. says, sounding more like a teacher than I do. “And James Bond likes his martini shaken, but we like to stir Momma’s because it bruises the gin if you shake it.”
″Like Ben’s bruise from that kid tripping him in soccer,” Sophie says.
″Kind of.” J.B. glances at me. He had been furious Ben had been hurt during the soccer game by some snot-nosed kid with a mom whose Botox injections impeded her ability to parent–his words, not mine. But he was pleased as punch that Sophie defended her brother and thinks we should encourage such behaviour.
The teacher in me frowns on encouraging it, and we tabled the discussion without coming to a resolution. Hopefully, it won’t be an issue again.
He places a shot glass in front of the little bruiser, with her adorable red curls and mischievous eyes. Both Sophie and Ben have inherited J.B.’s brown eyes, with Lucy sharing my trait of one blue, one hazel eye. “Two ounces of gin, please,” J.B. instructs.
″Is that how much James Bond drinks?” Sophie wants to know.
″And why do you teach them about James Bond?” I wonder aloud. “He’s not the most kid-friendly character. ”
Sophie runs her hand along an imaginary table. “He’s smooth, Momma. As cool as the other side of the pillow.”
″Is that what you teach them?” I ask faintly.
″A knowledge of James Bond will only help the kids in any trivia game,” J.B. reassures me as he dribbles vermouth into the glass. “Now we plop the olives in the glass.” J.B. holds the jar out for Sophie.
I laugh as both Sophie and J.B. make plopping sound effects as the olives sink into the gin.
″And now we add a couple of spoonfuls of the juice from the olives because Momma likes it dirty.”
J.B. glances at me over Sophie’s head and wiggles his eyebrows. I smile primly in return.
″And now we stir.” J.B. hands Sophie a plastic stir stick and she attacks her task with gusto. Gin spills over the side of the glass. “That’s good,” he says hastily, waving her away before I lose more of the drink before I get to drink it.
″Let’s give her more olives,” Sophie suggests.
″And another for you?”
″Okay! One for Momma,” Sophie adds another to my glass, and the alcohol wavers just under the brim. “And one for me.” She pops it into her mouth.
″Thanks for helping, Super Soph,” J.B. says, dropping a kiss on the top of her head.
″Anytime, Daddy.” She throws her arms around his waist and gives him a squeeze before running out of the room.
The love on his face warms my heart.
He takes a sip before passing me the glass. “She makes a good martini.”
″She’s learned from the best.”
″Either they’re going to have a drinking problem or they’re never going to touch the stuff,” he says.
″Hopefully a happy medium between the two.”
Once I’m content with my drink, J.B. turns back to his dinner preparations, scooping up the julienned vegetables and throwing them in the pan. The smell of garlic reminds me of a time, long ago, when I sat and watched J.B. cook for me. He made a spicy pork stir-fry for me that night. Tonight its chicken.
It seems like yesterday but feels like a lifetime ago.
We made a family. A pretty good one.
″Why can’t you go to Vegas?” J.B. asks out of nowhere.
He asks that just as I’m taking a sip of my martini. I’m so surprised that I choke, spraying gin over my hand holding the glass. Such a waste.
″You’re telling me to get on a plane and fly to Vegas just because Brit tells me to? I have work, kids, soccer games; you have work, kids…There’s no way I can do it.”
I keep my voice incredulous, rather than let the regret seep in.
I’m not sure why I would feel regret. This will be Brit’s fourth wedding, which means she’s already had three bachelorette/stagette/adult showers involving copious amounts of alcohol and organized by yours truly.
Or at least, I followed the detailed instructions Brit gave me.
Maybe I hadn’t been that into celebrating during the first time around, but in my defense, I was newly pregnant and suffering from morning/noon/night sickness which resulted in me being hospitalized for dehydration. Not a fun time. Add in the cold war that had been going on with J.B. at the time and it wasn’t the best time of my life. But I more than made up for it for Brit’s second stagette. I still have bad memories of the hangover .
Giving the vegetables a stir, J.B. steps from behind the counter to the doorway. “Five minutes until dinner,” he bellows.
″What’s five minutes?” Sophie calls back.
″When the big hand is on the one, and the little hand is on the six,” he replies. “Six oh five.”
″Okay, Daddy!” Ben chimes back over the sounds of Paw Patrol .
For some reason I find the sight of my husband parenting our children, even small things like calling them for dinner, an incredible turn on. He’s still so good-looking. But then again, his body didn’t take a beating from birthing three children all at once.
″What makes you think you can’t go to Vegas?” J.B. asks again, back to stir the veggies. He slides the sliced chicken into the pan and is rewarded by the sizzling sounds of frying meat. “I’ll talk to Coop, see if I can take a couple of nights off. I think it’ll do you good.”
I stare at my husband over the rim of my glass. It’s not that J.B. isn’t supportive or considerate–he actually understands the equality of the partnership of marriage better than I ever thought he would. Other than a hate of doing laundry, things are pretty equal when it comes to chores in our little household. But it’s one thing to fold a basket of clothes or clean a bathroom. It’s another to keep track of three 6-year-olds, responsible for their care and feeding for hours at a time. J.B. is perfectly capable of doing it but never has.
Doesn’t he know how exhausting the kids can be? Regardless of how much I love them and how fun they are at times, they make me tired.
Very tired.
I drain the martini, plucking an olive out of the bottom. “Are you serious?”
″Why wouldn’t I be serious? You worried I can’ t handle it?”
I only laugh, refraining from saying anything because Lucy flies into the kitchen. Literally flies, since she’s wearing her prized Wonder Woman cape that my sister got her for her birthday.
″Yum, olives,” she cries. Before I can stop her, she reaches into to my glass and snags one of the last remaining olives.
Olives that have been immersed in two ounces of high-quality Henricks gin.
″Lucy, no!” I cry grabbing for her hand, but not before she pops the olive into her mouth.
She frowns as she chews. “It tastes funny.”
I look at J.B. with horror. But J.B. only laughs. “Well, she won’t do that again.”
″You think I’m going to leave you with them for a weekend?” I demand.
″I’m not the one who left a boozy olive there for her, like some squishy Skittle.”
″It’s nothing like a Skittle!”
″The kid loves olives. Don’t you, Lucy Goosey.”
Lucy grins as her father ruffles the red curls. “I love olives!”
″Can I have an olive?” Ben asks, popping up under my arm and reaching for my glass. “I like them.”
″You better give him one too,” J.B. sighs.
″I’m not giving him my olives.”
″Just one, Momma. Like Lucy.”
″These aren’t regular olives,” I say, not wanting to explain what makes them so different.
″They’re Momma olives,” Lucy says proudly. “They’re yummy .”
″I want one,” Sophie sings .
I have no idea where she came from. Now all three of them are grouped around me, with expectant expressions on their face. J.B. shrugs.
″It won’t hurt them.”
I exhale audibly. Before I can change my mind, I pluck the last two remaining olives out of my martini glass and hand them to my daughter and son.
″Yum!” they cry in unison, popping the green fruit into their mouths.
″Do you ever think we’re not the best parents?” I ask J.B., slipping off the stool with glass in hand in case the kids want to lick the dregs of gin or something.
J.B. laughs. “We should write a What Not to Do for parents. It’d be a bestseller.”
″We’d get charged for something,” I say gloomily.