Book Excerpt

Peek-A-Booty

Since I'd started staying home with Allie and Avery, I found myself contending with a number of issues outside my realm of expertise. Take wardrobe choices, for instance. The usual routine consistent of Ashley selecting the girls’ clothes the night before; however, as soon as she left for work in the morning, Allie and Avery tossed them aside, overcome by a sudden urge to go with something a little more couture. A sensible look, consisting of a pink shirt, a powder blue jacket, and a pair of butterfly-embroidered jeans was subsequently replaced with a zip-up, gold vest; striped pajama bottoms; and a Tinker Bell skirt, previously part of last year’s Halloween costume. At first, I was unyielding, firm in my insistence that the girls change into their predetermined outfits, but eventually, I realized this was a matter of picking my battles, and I backed off. So, when Allie walked out of her room wearing a ratty, Hannah Montana dress-up wig and a green, full-body leotard under a polka-dot, poodle skirt, I thought, Oh why not? At least such out-of-the-box creativity helped to foster her self-esteem. This notion was reinforced by one of her school progress reports, when the teacher commented on how much the staff appreciated Allie’s “progressive fashion sense.”

I can’t say I extended the same leniency toward makeup. After mentioning that I'd looked into the rearview mirror one day, only to discover that Allie and Avery had used Sharpie markers as eyeliner and lipstick, a distant aunt took it upon herself to buy her destitute nieces an actual makeup kit. And not just any makeup kit either. This one was chock-full of an array of ridiculous colors, from green eyeshadow to purple lipstick, and everything in between. From the first morning I caught the two of them slathering gobs of opal-blue rouge on their faces as if they were patching holes in sheetrock, my stance on the subject was clear. Allie looked like a scary circus clown combined with a middle-aged French hooker. Meanwhile, Avery looked so similar to Heath Ledger’s rendition of the Joker, I half-expected her to ask, Why so serious? in response to my scowl. That makeup kit has since made a colorful splash at a landfill somewhere in Abilene.

Still, I much preferred dealing with issues of fashion and makeup over others, like say, nudity. Such experiences thus far had been limited to those involving my boys, which wasn't a big deal for obvious reasons.

A while back, before meeting Ashley and her girls, I hosted a sleepover for Noah, Harrison, Sawyer, and their cousins, Matilyn and Calvin. After breakfast the next day, I told my boys to change out of their PJ’s.

“And don’t forget to change your stinky undies,” I added as they scampered off to do what I'd asked. Such good boys.

A few minutes later, I heard the sounds of girly giggling and loud shooting noises. Heading upstairs to investigate, I found a red-faced Matilyn, hand cupped over her mouth as she attempted to stifle her snickering. The boys were re-enacting some sort of birthday-suit shootout. They were firing imaginary guns with one hand, and clutching their real “guns” with the other as they jumped back and forth from one mattress to another, like spider monkeys leaping through trees. Reminding the boys that a lady was present, I shut the door and ushered Matilyn down to the kitchen, hoping she wasn’t scarred for life. “Let’s leave the monkey-boys to their battle, Ms. Goodall.”

Boys, as they say, will be boys. Such primitive behavior doesn't concern me in the least. I know that my sons will probably continue to act like that through college and well into their middle-aged years. In some cultures, shoving a hand down one's trousers is an instinctual act for men. Thus, when it came to my sons, I figured there’s no point fighting the sociological wiring of their brains.

My level of confidence regarding this same behavior did not extend to little girls, however. If I ever walked in on Allie and Avery engaging in some female version of naked-monkey-gunslinger, I would be completely bewildered. So, like any self-conscious, stay-at-home stepdad with little girls, I called my mother for her insights.

“Aw, it ain’t no big deal,” she said in a way that made me feel stupid for bringing it up in the first place. “I always say kids are sexless till they’re nine, anyway.” This would explain why I'd had to take baths with my two younger sisters for all those years. Come to think of it, Mom might have extended the age limit to ten, had my third sister not been born and required my spot in the tub.

Although I appreciated her opinion, I doubted it would fly in today’s day and age, simply because kids were so much more informed on these matters. You might have been able to get away with this philosophy growing up in a trailer-home way out in the middle of rural Pennsylvania as my sisters and I had. However, when Allie and Avery sit in the back of the minivan and sing, “My humps. My humps. My lovely lady lumps. Check ‘em out!” the sexless theory might be obsolete. Truth be told, Allie and Avery already had a firm understanding of male and female anatomical differences. (Thank you very much, Black Eyed Peas.)