Sweet Revenge

I don’t mention my childhood much. I do a good job of keeping up the facade of a level headed, well-adjusted, stable person, so you probably assume that I had a normal upbringing. But all was not perfect for little D. Parker. And I’m not talking about being a flat-chested, uni-browed, four-eyed, brace-face. Or that my parents were hippies, and everything that goes along with that statement. No, I’m referring to the torture inflicted upon me by my younger brother.

Sure there were kids worse off than me. I know there are those that were molested or abused or really poor or ugly even without the braces and the coke bottle glasses. But the daily trauma I endured at the hands of my brother was like that of a slow Chinese water torture, the kind that can play with your mind, make you flinch and twitch in expectation of being hit in the head with a pillow or tripped or having your legs taken out from under you with a painless knock to the back of the knee, or worse, having your chair pulled away as you’re about to sit down to a meal that may or may not contain dog saliva or sneeze. I developed a fear of opening doors lest that simple action would engage a Water Pik to shoot at me upon entering, or a fishing net to drop over me or maybe I’d step bare-footed into mound of cold spaghetti or a bowl of jello. I spent many a cold night sleeping atop of my bedding, because there might be something between my sheets at the foot of my bed, only corn flakes? or worse?? The bee pollen hidden deep within my pillow case went undiscovered for weeks, and set me off on an allergy induced upper respiratory infection that lasted longer.

There was little I could do to fight back, but I knew that someday the tide would turn. I had hoped that my own sons would be able to avenge my torture, though sadly, Miles and Charles never honed their pillow throwing or stupid prank skills. And still my brother persisted, trying to teach my boys his skills while simultaneously putting forth bribes, in a lame attempt to convince them how much fun it would be to carry on the torturous ways of our youth. But the day my brother welcomed his first born son into the world, I knew my day of reckoning was near. His little bundle of joy would be my instrument of revenge. Fast forward seven years: little Max was coming for a sleepover.

My basic premise was to create such a perfect weekend for Max that he wouldn’t want to leave. A weekend filled with everything his normal day to day life was lacking, so that upon returning home, he’d be wont to complain and moan and groan about how miserable and boring his life was and how he wished he could move in with Auntie Parker. Pumping him full of junk food would not only be a means to that end, but also alter his moods to that which would more likely mimic my brother in his booby-trap constructing youth. And lastly, I aimed to instill some new interests or “hobbies” in Max, that could become inconvenient and annoying to his parents. In one short weekend I could exact a lifetime of revenge upon my brother.  As every successful villain has a sidekick, I picked a weekend when all of Charles’ buddies happened to be out of town, because Charles alone possesses the qualities needed to ensure the proper execution of my plan: stamina (read testosterone), skills (read athleticism) and intellect (read unlimited supply of penis jokes).

We started the festivities off at the beach…and I have to say it was touch and go. The kid weighs about 5 pounds soaking wet, so you can imagine how the waves were throwing him around. I must admit, it’s been years since I paid any attention to my own kids in the ocean, and it was slightly stressful to watch Max being tossed and tumbled. I even got up off my chair once, which was when I knew I needed a cocktail, and thank goodness it was our every-other-day-at-the-beach cocktail party and I had two gallons of margaritas along for the ride. But the truth is, I love little Max and I didn’t want to lose him in the ocean no matter how much revenge I was seeking. Luckily the snack bar a mile up the beach and the ice cream truck out on the street was enough to lure him out of the surf, with the promise of providing something other than the mundane peanut butter sandwich, juice box and Nutrigrain Bar he is used to, and we were onto Phase Two of my plan without missing a beat: junk food.

I don’t even know what Charles bought him at the snack bar (I was so exhausted from all that watching him in the surf I had to stay behind and rest), but I saw the two ice creams he brought back from the ice cream truck, (along with the bomb bags which were very funny and “Yes, here’s another two dollars, go buy some for home to scare Daddy”) and they didn’t even resemble ice cream, so I decided that we had better go out for ice cream after our pizza dinner too.  I needed to get this kid a real ice cream, like a sundae or a float, but he insisted on getting the blue stuff that stained his tongue and his fingers and his lips, and oh wait, his clothes too, a bonus I hadn’t considered!  And every time he took that awful retainer out of his mouth to eat anything, I was hoping he’d forget to put it back in (more points for me if my brother had to drop another $200 at the orthodontist) but I guess when you are holding something in your armpit it’s kind of hard to forget it’s there.

After a late night of unsupervised television viewing (New Bad Habit #1) I lured Max out of the tent Charles had pitched on the lawn, to a nutritious breakfast of s’mores. And Dr. Pepper.  (New Bad Habit #2: drinking soda.) If they can make a breakfast cereal called “S’mores” then the real deal would have to be even better, right?  With only several hours to go until his parents would be back to pick him up, Phase Three had to be put into action: the new hobby. “Charlie,” I shouted, “get your cigarettes!”

Just kidding, I really said “skateboards.”

What parent doesn’t cringe watching their child do tricks on a skateboard?  Oh, excuse me, I believe the correct term is longboard. The jumps, the falls, the spins…every move offering the possibility of a trip to the emergency room with a broken wrist or concussion!  Helmet or no helmet, it’s just a dangerous activity, and perfect for a daring seven-year-old!  Within the first hour of Max’s “lesson,” he was begging me to buy him a skateboard, I mean longboard, for his birthday, and I almost offered to send him home with one, after all his birthday was coming up soon, but then I thought I could get more bang for my buck if this kid was going to beg his parents for one over the next four months. If Santa didn’t come through in the end, Auntie Parker would!

A couple of hours later, with more Dr. Pepper on board, little Max was standing at the end of the driveway, his backpack on his back, waiting for his parents to pick him up. I had to drag him out of my house and tie him to the mailbox, to ensure he was actually going to leave, and truth be told I’m not 100% sure it was his parents that picked him up, but somebody did because he’s not there anymore. And I am back in my house, sipping a glass of champagne in celebration of a revenge 35 years in the making.

Cheers!