Chapter 3

The bed was motionless when I woke up Sunday morning. I cracked one eye and looked around cautiously. Satisfied that I was alone, I turned the covers back and hustled my morning wood to the bathroom. After tossing on a pair of shorts and a tee-shirt, I tip-toed down the hall and saw that Mom was still asleep. Best to leave sleeping little girls lie, I decided, and went to the kitchen to start some coffee. I was back in my room, checking news headlines on my computer, when Mom, still in her sleep shirt, came in holding a bedraggled teddy bear by its arm and scratching at a mop of total bedhead.

"Well, good morning," I said. "How's my sleepyhead Samantha this morning?"

Mom stifled a yawn. "Better than she's been in a looooong time," she said.

"Most excellent. Are you ready for breakfast?"

"French toast!"

"Okay, french toast it is. How about if you go get dressed while I get the french toast started?"

"Kay," Mom said, scratching her butt as she walked out of the room. She hitched the back of her shirt up as she scratched, and it was obvious that she'd never got around to putting panties on before she went to sleep last night.

I had the french toast in the pan when Mom arrived in the kitchen. The top she'd chosen for today was a loose smock-like garment made of fairly heavy and opaque cotton. The baggy shorts had given way to a pair that were a long way from being baggy. Her hair was still a rat's nest.

"So how come you didn't comb your hair this morning?" I asked as we were mopping up the final drops of maple syrup with the final bites of french toast.

"Need help," Mom said.

"What's the matter?"

"All snaggly."

I was certain that Mom was perfectly capable of combing the snaggles out of her own hair, but I went along with Samantha's request without question. She fetched a comb and brush from her room, then sat her sideways on a chair in front of me while I worked the snarls out one tiny piece at a time.

"What do you want to do today," I asked as I ran the brush through her hair.

"Go to the park," she said.

I looked up at the clock. Between our slow start on the day, the french toast, which took more time than cereal, and combing out her hair, we were running later today than yesterday. "Tell you what," I said, "how about if we do some stuff here for a little while, then we'll go to the park and have a hot dog for lunch there?"

"Yay!" Mom said, as she bounded out of the kitchen.

I cleaned up the french toast dishes, then decided to change my bed. My sheets really weren't crusty—all the crust was in soggy Kleenexes in my wastebasket—but they did need washing. After I'd put the sheets in the drier, I rounded Mom up and we drove the two or so miles to a city park that catered to kids of all ages and had equipment ranging from sandboxes and the little springy rides to teeter-totters, swings, merry-go-rounds, slides, and jungle gyms for older kids. A number of food and drink vendors regularly set up their carts on the sidewalk around the park. We got a couple of hot dogs and soft drinks and settled at a picnic table to chow down.

"What do you want to do first?" I asked.

"Swings," Mom said, "and you have to push me."

"I have to push you?

Mom looked at me with her child eyes. "Would you push me, please?" she said, blinking.

"Of course I will," I said. "Never forget the power of please."

Mom's eyes shot me a look out of Samantha's face. Dear God, I thought. Have I just set myself up for something else? I think I'd better beware of the power of please—while keeping my guard up.

We finished up our hot dogs and drinks, deposited our papers and cups in the trash barrel, and headed for the swings.

I pushed Mom. I pushed Mom mightily. I pushed Mom until the chains on the swings were nearly parallel with the ground. She pumped and kicked and squealed like a little kid. The kids were looking at us as strangely as the adults, but it didn't seem to bother Mom, so I just went along for the ride. Or the push.

We did a teeter-totter and I tugged a merry-go-round in circles until my shoulders ached. At the slides, Mom felt the shiny steel surface to see how hot it was, then ran her hand over her butt to ascertain just where the legs of her shorts stopped. And then decided to pass on the slide.

So it was off to the jungle gym. Mom latched on, and up she went. Like a responsible person, I stayed on the ground to spot for her. As Mom leaned forward while securing a grip on the next higher bars, I saw with some horror that although her shirt did a splendid job of covering her breasts when she was standing on the ground, she didn't have a bra on. Fortunately, we had the jungle gym to ourselves. I didn't say anything, and just let Mom clamber on up to the top on her own. When she got there, she stood up and raised her arms and shouted, "Look at me!" Naturally, everybody within earshot looked. Mom wasn't at that point showing anything publicly she shouldn't, but kids and adults alike now knew where Mom was.

Apparently having accomplished her goal, Mom started back down. She was doing just fine until she got to the lowest row of bars and her foot slipped. For a minute, I thought she was just going to fall face forward and break her neck, but she got the other leg on top of the bar and rotated around it so that she was hanging by one hand and one knee, with her legs spraddled and her shirt flopped down around her ears. She let out a godawful shriek, and I think that every single head in the park turned toward her. Boobs look kind of funny when they're hanging upside-down.

I ran to Mom as quickly as I could and supported her under her arms as she finished her ignominious descent. She yanked her shirt down and looked at me with an absolutely flaming face. "Get me out of here now!" she snarled.

I took her hand, and we quick-stepped our way back to the car. "And don't you dare laugh."

Well, I was laughing. "When something's funny, it's okay to laugh. You taught me that yourself. Besides, what's little Samantha going to do if I laugh at her too hard?"

Mom punched me in the arm. Hard. "You don't want to find out," she hissed.

When we got home, she stomped to her bedroom and slammed the door. I put my mouth next to it and said, "I'll call you when dinner's ready." It sounded for all the world to me like Mom kicked her door. I suppose a responsible person should expect that from a four-year-old.

I decided to feed Mom macaroni and cheese for dinner. It's a comfort food for kids, and I thought it might rub her day in a little bit. I was surprised at myself for taking some pleasure from razzing Mom about Samantha's behavior.

Mom seemed to be calmed down some when she came out of her room to eat. She was sullen, for sure, but not downright hostile.

"Do you want to do something tonight, or are you going to go back to your room and stew?"