My Sister's Son

On my sister’s side I have one nephew, her son. That’s it. That’s the totality of male lineage for her and her husband and all his kin, none of which he kept in close contact. One nephew. The fact that he was adorable from the get-go and looked more like me than my sister isn’t what drew me to him. It was his sense of humor and timing. And drama. He’d deny it today but he had a refined sense of dramatic usage that sprang from an advanced awareness of his environment. Also he was very good at looking sad, which worked every time. Today, he’s a witty writer so he can tell you about his versions of these stories. My job here is to write down what I remember before I forget. So here goes: his first words. Most babies start with one or two words at a time. He started with a puzzle. I was sleeping on a broken-down couch in the living room because his parents were visiting and they took over my bedroom. He was old enough to walk but not old enough to talk, at least that’s what his parents believed. He had different ideas. I woke up very early in the morning to find him staring at me. He was so short, his face was even with mine as I lay on that sunken surface. He looked at me deadpan and asked, “Know why?” “Why?” I muttered in a fog of sleepiness. “Cause why.” This made perfect sense. There was no need for further discussion. He toddled back to the bedroom as I gazed in defeat at my smashed spectacles which I’d lain on the floor next to the couch and upon which he’d stood to gain my attention. To add insult to injury, his mother refused to believe me when I stated that her son was a scam artist. It was a few months before they acknowledged the wisdom of his “Know why? Cause why.” I think I had to pay for new glasses from babysitting money. Then there was the time he decided to figure out how irons worked or he played with heated frying pans. I can’t remember for certain except that he experimented with heat and got a nasty burn on one of his palms. I watched him sit quietly on the couch in his parents’ apartment, gazing piteously at the bandage. Naturally we felt sorry for him; he looked so sad. That’s when his father walked into the house with a bag full of groceries. Once my nephew realized his father had actually gone to the store and left him behind, his face crumpled into such sorrow that had Leonardo da Vinci been able to paint that face, we’d be talking about the Broken Hearted Boy instead of the Mona Lisa. Tears spilled down his cheeks as the realization of his father’s betrayal sank in. His grief knew no end though he stoically wept in silence. “What’s wrong with D?” asked his father in instant concern. “You went to the grocery store without him,” replied his mother. Guilt swept over his father’s face, followed by the need to atone. “Did you want to go the the store with me?” Silence. A small tear-stained nod was his reply. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t know. Do you want to go back to the store with me now?” Silence. Another small, though somewhat less sad nod. “Come on. We’ll go get more groceries! Will that make you happy?” And with that, his father whisked his little boy into his arms and went back to the store solely so that his son could come home with a treat. Do I remember what it was? No. I was too awed by the power of a sad, small face to turn a great big man into mush. It didn’t last all that long, that ability to manipulate his father with a tear or two. He soon learned to use logic. This was important because his father didn’t relate well to people who lacked debate tactics. I’ve heard the man refer to his offspring as “it” as in “When is it going to learn to speak like a human being?” The human being in question was soon old enough to be given a plastic carpenter’s tool box replete with hammer, screwdriver, saw, and workman’s table. It was a prized possession. He liked to play with it. What he didn’t like was having to go to bed early when he misbehaved, which was never according to his understanding. Apparently, his father thought differently, because he put his son to bed with some sort of strictures about don’t do this or don’t do that. Again, his father’s unjust treatment impacted the now verbal child, only this time he got angry instead of sad. As his father started to leave the room, he heard some muttered rumblings coming from the bed. Turning around, he asked, “What did you say?” “I said when you fall asleep I’m going to cut off your head with my saw.” Please keep in mind this was fifty years before youngsters learned how to make bombs via YouTube tutorials. It was thirty years before parents began wondering if they were rearing psychopaths. So rather than becoming alarmed by the threat of imminent decapitation, my brother-in-law and sister repeated this charming tete-a-tete as an example of their son’s inventive brilliance. I thought it was pretty damned funny to tell you the truth. I still do. It’s my favorite D story. For all the times that wise man has counseled me about life’s trials, listened to my tales of woe, and fed me, it’s still my favorite quote. “I’m going to cut off your head with my saw.” You should know he never threatened me nor caused me any grief other than refusing to eat whatever I cooked for him when I was in charge. Frankly, if I’d been in his place, I wouldn’t have eaten it either. Five-year-olds want Mac and Cheese or spaghetti or sugary cereal, not sautéed pork chops. However, there was a time when he did accidentally gave me a heart attack. Not only me, but my future husband as well. This was a child who refused to stay in bed. You know the type. You tuck them in, turn out the light, and close the door behind you. They wait three minutes, turn on a nightstand light, get out of bed, and play with all their toys until they finally conk out somewhere on the floor. We didn’t know this, my boyfriend and I, when we were entrusted with his care so his parents could leave the house for few hours and act like adults. We put him to bed and then watched TV. After an hour or so we decided to check on him. I tried to open his bedroom door but something was blocking it so I called my boyfriend over to help. He was able to get the door ajar just enough to reach around to feel what was in the way. What his hand landed on was my nephew’s head. The child was on the floor with his head against the door and his feet against his bedpost. “What do I do? If I push on the door, I’ll smash his head!” Anxiety echoed in my boyfriend’s voice. It soon morphed into mutual panic. “Try moving his head to wake him up!” “I am, but he’s not responding!” “Is there any way to take the door off its hinges?” “Not from this side!” “What should I do?” “He’s unconscious! Call the Fire Department!” Right then, right when we were dashing toward the phone … this was WAY before cell phones … his parents opened the front door and walked in. “Thank God you’re here! D is on the floor and we can’t get into his room to find out what’s wrong! We tried waking him but he’s not responding!” You’d think his parents would start freaking out as much as we were, right? Wrong. They smiled and said he’d probably just fallen asleep on the floor and would wake up soon. What did they know? They hadn’t groped around the door and felt his squishy little head unresponsive to all our attempts to shake it awake! Yeah. No. He was just asleep. Did his father figure out how to shove him aside so he could get into the room, pick the zombie up and put it back in its nest? Did Sleeping Beauty awaken and decide to open his door to find out what all the noise was about? Pick an answer. Any answer will do. That should have been my clue. I should have learned from that experience to convince my doctor to put me on Valium long before he actually did. Yet, as my daughter likes to remind me, “Oh, Ma. You’re so brilliant but sometimes you’re just so slow.” All my nephews are treasures. Each one is a jewel, a gem, a priceless gift from heaven. There are dozens of such endearing tales I could share about each of them and how they almost did us in. But then that’s what they are here for, isn’t it? To wear us out and eventually replace us? You nieces, stop smirking. It’s your turn next, once my breathing returns to normal.