Okay, my true story as provoked by Zany:
I used to live in Colorado Springs. The company I worked for closed and we all got really generous severance packages.
With my paid free time, I decided to be a writer, for real. Except I just ended up sitting on my ass all day. I was bored, divorced, and pretty apathetic about everything, so when my brother and his family asked me to move with them from Colorado Springs to Shreveport, LA, I stupidly hopped on board. I guess I just needed a change.
I’ve always been very close with my nieces and nephews (all of them, not just my brother’s children). I love the little shits like crazy. I’ve taken care of them as babies and as teenagers and have been there for them, even at a distance, as they enter the difficulties of adult life.
So, we all moved into this big ranchhouse, actually in Bossier City, right next to Shreveport. My brother didn’t have a lot of money and had 6 kids (before long it would be 8) so me coming along was a major help to them as far as affording the house and having someone there to help out.
My brother and his wife both worked at a restaurant, he as a cook, and she as a manager. I was still getting by very comfortably on my severance so I ended up doing a large part of the child care. This involved breakfast and lunch for those not old enough to be in school yet, cooking dinner about half the time, homework at the table for the school aged kids (Nicole, Barbara, Wesley, and Lindsey), changing diapers, naps, typical stuff.
Okay, so that was a hell of a long setup for what’s really a fairly small story.
Their grandfather on their mother’s side was a Baptist minister and was taking the kids to a church dance. They were all getting ready when Nicole comes hopping down the stairs. She’s 12 or 13 at this time and wearing a tank top.
I immediately told her to go change into a different shirt.
“Why?” she asked, genuinely confused.
“Just go back upstairs and put a more appropriate shirt on, honey,” I told her, trying to be subtle in front of her brother and sisters.
“But I always wear this.”
“Nicole, you’re getting older, stuff changes. Trust me. Please go change your shirt.”
“Uncle Heath!”
“Nicole.”
“Why can’t I wear this!” I was getting a little impatient with trying not to embarrass her at this point.
“Because, Nicole, you are starting to grow boobies. The sleeves on that shirt are flashing them to anyone nearby. Please go change your shirt.”
Yes, I said “boobies.”
She turned bright red, folded her arms around her chest, and raced back upstairs.
“tell her to put some more clothes in” indeed.
In a barely related incident, my 4 year old (at the time) niece, Peyton, told me she needed to go pee.
“Nicole! Take Peyton to pee.”
“Uh! Uncle Heath, why can’t you?”
“Because this is where I’m drawing the line. Hurry before she pees herself.”
Nicole took her to the bathroom and got her seated on the toilet to do her thing.
About 45 minutes later I noticed I hadn’t heard Peyton’s defiant little voice in a while (she was a willful little mess).
“Nicole! Where is Peyton?!”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you help her get wiped and cleaned up?” I got a blank look of horror on Nicole’s face as she dashed for the bathroom.
She returned with a bleary-eyed Peyton. The poor little darling had waited so long for someone to come help her that she had fallen asleep on the toilet.
Yes, I felt terrible. :/
and… because they are so awesome, here are four of my Riley Girls ♥ ♥ ♥ (they are, of course, all quite a bit older now):
