I Now Will Have Dumbo Stuck In My Head For The Next Five Years

Last night was dinner-with-my-brother night, and instead of going out with my Mom we went out with my Dad, which was totally different a) because with my Mom we always eat out, because we love eating out, but also because since she hooked up with E she doesn't cook for herself, pick out her own clothes, or drive herself anywhere anymore. The other day she came in wearing something very comfortable looking, something very much like the way I remember my Mom from childhood, and I went up and hugged her, half expecting to smell Obsession and Suave hairspray, and having to duck out of the way of curls because they used to be stiff little spirals of eye-gouging death - but her hair was soft, and she smelled like fancy new-Mom, and when I asked her about the change in wardrobe she said, "Oh, E left early this morning so I had to pick out my own clothes. I think I got this in 1989," she said proudly.

"It shows," I commended.

"Right? I love it. The 80s are back."

"Not in the carpet-jacket shoulder-pad sort of way."

"Are you sure?"

"Pretty sure."

"Remember when I wanted to get blue eyeliner tattooed on my eyes?"

"Every day of my life."

"Maybe I should do that. You can't go wrong with blue eyeliner."


And this is why it's ok E insists on being her fashion stylist.


Anyway, dinner with Michael was also different because b) it was at our house, and Michael is not used to being there, so upon arrival he opened every cupboard, went through every drawer, opened every single piece of mail we had and then flung the bills and letters to the floor, choosing to focus on the envelopes, flushed the toilet a few times for good measure, and then ran* back and forth between my room and Becky's room trying to decide which bed was going to be most comfortable for him to relax on. (He chose mine. No surprise there. I'm the favorite - but only in the way I'm also the dog's favorite. I give the dog human food when she looks at me all cute-like, and I give Michael pretty much anything he wants when he looks at me all cute-like. Lesson: if you want something from me, look cute.)

(*Michael doesn't run, he stomps. I'm not sure if it's his cerebral palsy or that he never learned, but stomping quickly is about as fast as he goes. Becky doesn't run either, and she definitely doesn't have cerebral palsy. I think it's just a thing they decided they weren't going to do when they were in the womb together. That and clean their own dishes. "No running, no dishes, lets get ourselves born!")

When we're out with my Mom, Michael tends to act slightly adult. He asks to listen to Michael Jackson, he doesn't want to hear the Disney songs we usually sing to him, and you can just forget about hugging in public. But when my Dad showed up he was immediately pulling out the Dumbo tape we played on a loop from 1983-2001, letting me dance with him (ok, fine, near him) and sitting all two bills of himself down on my Dad's lap. Michael is not a small guy, he probably outweighs my dad, and is the same height (the men in my family cap out at 5'8 while the women don't drift under 6' which makes family photos awesome), and so within 5 minutes my dad had lost all feeling in his legs and was beginning to look a little faint, but nobody wanted to tell Michael to move because it was so f-ing cute, and lovey, and adorable that my 27 year old brother wanted to be sitting on my Dad's lap that we just let him sit there, giggling, and happy, and smiling this smile that can break my heart from four billion miles away. And then I looked over and saw Becky smiling and laughing at the whole scene, and suddenly I couldn't stop looking back and forth cause here were the twins, smiling, and happy at the same time.

It was so goddamn magical that you could have asked me for my first born son last night and he would have been yours. He would have been yours a hundred times over.





Ok, not really. I want my first born son. My second though, he's all yours.