Jen on the Edge

My youngest brother Josh was something of a handful when he was a kid. Not one of those hyperactive whirling dervishes; more of a mad scientist in training. Josh used to do some of the most jaw-droppingly stupid things that always caused some sort of chaos, yet my parents never killed him as punishment. If it had been me, one day after wreaking Josh-level havoc, I’d have been dead exactly 24 hours.

Remember those foam capsules that you dropped in water and various shapes would appear? When Josh was two, he took some of the resultant foam shapes and shoved them way far back into his nose. We didn’t notice. For days. Finally, we all noticed something of an, ahem, odor about him. Naturally our parents checked his diapers. Nothing. His breath reeked, so he got an extra thorough tooth brushing. Didn’t help. We all shrugged our shoulders and went off to church. After church, we went to the nursery to get him and the stench in the room caused us to recoil. Again, our parents checked Josh’s diaper and found nothing. Finally, someone thought to look in Josh’s nose and noticed that his nasal cavity seemed somewhat obstructed. Half an hour — and many toddler tears later — there was a pile of decomposing, snot-and-blood-slicked sponges in the bathroom trashcan.

In the ensuing years, Josh tried all sorts of interesting things:

He systematically dismantled our mother’s music box collection to see how each one worked. They never worked again after that.

He climbed anything that could be climbed. Surprisingly, my parents never needed to call in an orthopedic surgeon.

Once, when Josh was about 12, he decided to experiment with the magnetic properties of various things. His experiments basically involved throwing a small magnet up against metal items to see if it would stick. The very last item he tested was our parents’ late ’80s minivan. Except that he missed the side of the van and hit the window. The window that had a metallic-based tint. He didn’t just crack the window or even put a hole in it. No. The window just disintegrated into millions of tiny glass splinters. I have never seen a kid look so scared and so certain of impending death. Nope, didn’t happen. I guess it was just the luck of being the youngest and having parents who were already worn down from parenting. (Blame it on Meredith and Michael, not me, I was a model child of course.)

One of my favorite episodes — and the one I was reminded of this morning — was Josh’s fruit flushing episode. Yes, he flushed fruit. He started with something small, like a grape, to see what would happen. Nothing bad happened, so he moved up a size, to a plum or something like that. (My memory may be a bit faulty on the exact fruits, but you’ll get the idea.) Again, nothing happened. Ultimately, Josh ended up flushing an orange, which was about the same diameter as the plumbing. Yep, it got stuck. And it was the only toilet in our house. A house with six people living in it. Plunging didn’t do the trick. My stepfather ended up having to disconnect the crapper and then reach down into the plumbing. It took a while and involved some really inventive new curse words. Sailors would have learned a thing or two from him. I certainly did. Eventually, all was fixed and Josh lived to wreak havoc on other days.

(In all fairness, I should mention that Josh is a terrific adult without any sort of rap sheet or sealed juvenile court record. He has a master’s degree and is teaching high school. Definitely an awesome guy and a great brother.)

The reason I was reminded of all this today was I think Josh may have a disciple: Elegant.

This morning we were having breakfast and getting ready for school and work. Elegant is not a morning person and definitely not a breakfast person. If given the option, she’d probably just sleep until 9:00 and then ease into the day with coffee and “The View.”

So Elegant was sitting at the table, hair in her face, obviously wishing she were back in her nice warm bed. Out of nowhere, she asks, “How EXACTLY do toilets work?”

Pete and I looked at each other with wary eyes and declined to give her any specifics. I’ll be hiding the fruit and putting a plumber on speed dial. While I’m at it, maybe I should hide the magnets too.

And we have a new nickname for Elegant: Josh 2.0

Things I wish I knew:

Why do drivers with large SUVs feel the need to back into parking spaces, thus tying up traffic going in both directions down the row? It takes more effort and time to back into a space correctly than it does to just pull in normally and then back out normally. And of course these drivers are the ones who are incapable of just backing in. It takes seven attempts to back in a bit, pull forward a bit, back in a bit more, pull forward to straighten up, etc. In the meantime, lines of cars are sitting there, stalled, and (in my case) the drivers are quietly using language that would burn the ears of a Marine. Really people, if you’re driving a Suburban or an Expedition and cannot manage to back out of a parking space, just use the powers of your automotive behemoth and just drive over the little Japanese car in front of you.

Why does Elegant wake up in the night, calmly walk across the hall, and calmly announce that she has had a nightmare and needs to be escorted back to bed and tucked in? The same bed that she just left 30 seconds before. And why does she always come to MY side of the bed, which is the furthest from the door? And how does my husband manage to sleep soundly through all this?

Why are men incapable of noticing scum in a toilet or toothpaste flecks on a mirror and thus correctly surmising that the bathroom needs cleaning? And why, when the topic comes up, do men say they’d be happy to HELP with the cleaning? Are you not in a domestic partnership? Is it not equally your job as much as the other person’s?

When my mother-in-law does something that offends me — and something that she knows offends me — why do I feel so compelled to retaliate in some way? Why can’t I just drop it? Her son chose me. Me. I am the most important woman in his life. Going on 20 years now. Yet I must still assert my supremacy in ways that are sometimes so subtle that my MIL doesn’t even notice. Why do I allow myself to be baited?

And why are some people the Kryptonite to my Super Jen-ness? I am intelligent, witty, and funny. I am well educated and well read. I have an interesting job and interact with interesting people. Yet around some people — and these are people I’m related to, so I can’t just drop them — I am so much less myself. I became awkward, gawky, dull, tongue-tied. It’s like I’m 14 all over again.

Why do some people treat others, particularly people in sales or service jobs, as if they were inferior? Why do some people feel compelled to talk down to waitresses or cleaning people? Why do some people bitch at store clerks and cashiers?

Why are children so fascinated with their own snot and boogers? And why are butts and the word “butt” itself so funny to children?

Why do people, when offering up a casual greeting such as “Hi. How are you?” when they really are not interested in the second part? Why not just say “Hi” and be done with it? If I pass you while we’re walking laps through the neighborhood, don’t add the “How are you?” part because one day I might just take you literally and tell you exactly how I am.

Why did a complete stranger once pass by me in a public bathroom, walk several feet, stop, turn around, and come back to tell me “Jesus loves you.”? There were other people present. Why only me? Did I look like I was having that bad a day? What would she have done if I had responded with “Well Satan loves you.”?

Why are Thanksgiving and Christmas leftovers that good? Other leftovers can’t even compete. I know someone who actually cooks an entire Thanksgiving dinner, puts it in the fridge, and then goes out to eat her holiday meal. She does it just for the leftovers. What makes them so damn special?

What is it about the Stars Wars movies that is so compelling to some people?

Why is Paris Hilton famous?

So many things I just don’t know and probably never will.

Elegant (6) brought home the following work from first grade:

“My wish for 2007 is I want to be like Houdini. I would walk throe walls. I could hold my breth for five hundred minits. I could brake out of jail.”

Hmm… I think I’d better put a lawyer on our speed dial.