The Boy I Could Never Love

*The Kids

Mom spent most of fourth and fifth grade pregnant after dad returned. My siblings were born a little over a year apart. My sister came first and a set of twins followed. We now had what amounted to triplets in our family.

I loved the idea of being a big sister and wanted to help with everything, absorbing all my parents would teach. Changing their diapers and feeding them heated breast milk from the fridge after Mom went back to work became a routine I felt proud to have a part in. The more I learned, the more I wanted to.

My father found he could relax with me taking care of the kids. He taught me how to care for them and let me at it. For the first time ever I had a purpose, seeing I never questioned the amount of responsibility. As my father obtained another DUI and lost his license, it saw me sent to the store for milk and other groceries.

I complained at first, the local grocery store sat about two miles away, but not going was not an option. The kids needed milk to survive, and it was good exercise. I went, though I didn't pretend to feel happy about it. As more trips ensued, I griped to my mother about it who gave him hell. The trips didn't stop, but when I came home, he started going out to buy cigarettes, as a ten-year-old could not, earning him credit for the shopping. 

I found I could carry more by hand than the handlebars of my bike, so depending on how much we needed dictated what I chose. Two gallons of milk and six bags created too much weight for the bike, meaning any more and it needed to be left behind. Once I needed to go back as I brought the bike and could not find a way to carry the amount. My father was pissed, and I learned pushing the bike if I bought too much was better.

Dad maintained his family's alcoholic teachings and coached the acronym Just Over Broke, but could not hold onto work more than a few weeks at a time. There always existed some new get-rich-quick scheme he tested. So, working or not, he stayed too busy to bother with the house or the kids. Often visiting his brother with the demand that I watch the kids while he went out saw to my scrambling to provide for them.*

My interest in recipes saw I knew my way around the kitchen. This served me well where, even when he did stay home, I often needed to cook as he would forget. More visits to his brother brought him staying longer than the hour or two he said it would take. I didn't really know my uncle then but talking to my mother one day, I learned he worked as a bartender downtown.

By the time I hit sixth grade, I could sanitize bottles, change diapers, read any recipe, sort and do laundry, fold it, shop for food, wash dishes, burp babies, feed them, and put them to bed. I gave my brother his nebulizer treatments when scheduled. However, recognizing when he needed it in an emergency remained difficult.

Each school year, I participated in one sport, field hockey in sixth and soccer in seventh and eighth, hopeful that things would change as Mom told me they would, but coming home to strangers who never wanted to leave made me unwilling to continue sports when the season ended. Someone needed to be around for my younger siblings when dad went on a binge, and mom had to work. That left me to pick up the slack.

Washing dishes had to be done a certain way. Bottles, cups, bowls, plates, silverware, and pots and pans created the lineup. It made so I never finished, and because I wasn't doing them correctly, whenever I stood at the sink, my backside would receive his steeled-toed boot in the center of it. He especially enjoyed doing this after an argument, telling me I deserved it for being a little shit, and laughing while pushing the fact that it didn't hurt that much. To this day, cleaning, especially doing dishes with other people around, gives me anxiety.

Tell me your least favorite chore then talk about the one you enjoy doing.
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