-Alfred's Lemonade Stand-
How does one define childhood? I think it's more a question of, how does childhood define us?
Those moments, those little flashes of happy days, the feeling of simpler times, they stay with us for the rest of our lives.
Some of us are forced into adulthood early with heavy burdens and responsibilities, and never experience those defining moments. Some of us never learn to leave it behind and choose to live in its glory forever. Most of us, however, grow up, and are left with nothing but those few glimpses of the past.
I can tell you I'd had the loveliest experience with the first. Sixteen, living in a fantasy world of "sex, drugs, and rock n' roll," if you will; I'd been dating the most beautiful girl in the whole town for but two months, and if accepting alchohol from a friend at a party wasn't enough, I ended up getting the girl pregnant. In one moment, both our lives had drastically changed to the point of no return. No quicker way to end childhood than to start it, no?
An odd turn of events and it wasn't I who was leaving her with the child, it was her who left me. Seventeen, all alone, abandoned by both my ex-girlfriend and my mother, and left to take care of a three-month-old baby.
The end of the world?
Ah, but no! I rose to the challenge gallantly! I dropped out of school, and with my feeble income from the fast food restaurant I'd been working at previously, I'd managed to save up enough for an apartment. Soon I was working three jobs on nearly endless shifts but for two hours to sleep, and I had to bring my baby boy, Alfred, I named him, to work with me.
By the time Alfred was two years old, I was nineteen-going-on-forty. But no matter what bad memories crept back at those brilliant blue eyes that only could have been his mothers', no matter how many graveyard shifts I worked for the kind of change you could find buried in your couch, no matter how many times I woke up to a wailing baby, I still felt an odd affection for the boy. It was my fault he was here, and I was determined to make it better for him.
Or was it for me? Often times I dreamed of going back to school, of finding love, of having a happy family...
When Alfred was three my heaven-sent boss up at the McDonalds' I'd been working at since sixteen promoted me to manager, which gave me just enough to purchase an actual home for my child and I. It was the smallest, shabbiest house on the block, but it was ours.
Now Alfred is six years old and I am but twenty-two, and we live pleasantly in our same little house. I am only working two jobs now, and am determined to spend more time with Alfred. The boy gets lonely a lot, what with no mother and a father that's working all the time. I won't let him live that way. I'll make it better.
Often I tell Alfred he was a mistake. He makes a pouty face, at which I laugh and tell him he's the best little mistake that ever happened.
He dreams of being a superhero, the strength of which could rival that of Superman, although he prefers Captain America. Several times he's fallen off the couch trying to fly, and once he broke his arm "saving" a squirrel from being "stuck" in a tree.
He eats far too much; when I bring him to work with me he always digs in the fries. Although he tells me his favorite is the hamburgers, and I sometimes catch my coworkers sneaking him some.
He has an odd issue with wearing pants. I make him dress properly when we're out, but as soon as we get home he strips down to his underwear, which usually have cowboys or superheroes or something of the such on them.
He still wets the bed. It's positively awful. And he still has nightmares, and comes to sleep with me. Which isn't so bad.
Alfred still has the soft, round babyface. And he's missing his front tooth. The baby fat, however- I don't think of it as baby fat, but the consequences of all the junk food he eats.
He still cries when he doesn't get his way. But that doesn't happen often.
He has an imaginary friend named Matthew. This imaginary Matthew's his only friend, really, so I play along and pretend he's real. Although, I have caught him making passes at the little girl across the street, if that counts for a friend.
We sing The Beatles and dance to Elvis and Alannah Myles, and then afterwards he always asks me to make cookies. I burn them every time, but he says that's just how he likes them.
I play outside with him. In the spring picking flowers and chasing butterflies and bunny rabbits; in the summer digging in the dirt for bugs or running through the sprinklers; in the fall jumping in leaves and riding our bicycles; in the winter we build snowmen and have snowball fights. Childish, yes. Messy, absolutely. And would I do it for anyone else? Not in a million years.
His favorite holiday is Independence Day and he is a proud American, stating that one day he will "cure me of my icky Britishes."
And he feels the need to call me Artie, no matter how many times I correct him to say Dad.
Alfred is stubborn, erratic, obnoxious, disgusting, clueless, and most of all gluttonous.
But would I love him the same if he weren't?
Alfred and his imaginary friend Matthew run a lemonade stand. When I'm not working, I sit out front with him, while he stands behind the cheap table and little posterboard sign announcing his sales. I sit in a lawn chair beside him, reading the newspaper, while he prefers waving and yelling to the cars that pass by.
The little stand is quite popular with the older ladies on the street. Even some of the other children stop by occasionally.
Alfred always greets them with a smile and says, "Welcome to McDonalds', may I take your order?" before I correct him that he is working a lemonade stand, not a fast food chain. He at least is polite, always saying, "Thank ya, sir!" or "Much 'ppreciated, ma'am!" after taking their quarters and dimes.
He used to make the lemonade himself, even. After a bit the people stopped coming and I got suspicious of what he was putting in it, so now I make the lemonade for him.
He is so enthusiastic about it, too. He often runs outside before remembering he's supposed to get dressed first. He's made twenty dollars so far, and is so very proud.
"Artie?" Alfred came up to me one night, face innocent, hands behind his back.
"Daddy." I corrected simply, taking a sip of tea.
"Daddy," he corrected himself, instead of fighting.
"Yes?" I raised an eyebrow at him. He usually shows me his bottom and runs off after that part.
Alfred climbed up and sat on my lap. "I gotted you this." he handed me a baggie with the twenty dollars, in change.
"Alfred darling, this is all your money," I took the bag, confused.
"Excepts one. Cuz I gotsta buy more lemons." he tugged at the bottom of his shirt nervously. "You getsta keep this."
"Oh, honey," I chuckled, running a hand through his hair affectionately, "I couldn't take this."
"Yes!" he nodded quickly. "So you can not works." he frowned, looking down. "And then you can be with me and Matt-y mores. And thens you can goes to school like you always say."
...I just dropped everything and hugged him. Clutching the small boy to my chest, I felt a tear roll down my cheek. Did he really feel that way?
He threw his arms around my neck and buried his face into my shoulder. I sat there holding him, holding my breath.
Then I pulled away and looked him straight in those big blue eyes and told him, "Alfred, love, I promise you, that from now on I will spend more time with you. ...And Matthew."
His face lit up. "Really?" He grinned up at me, bearing his one missing tooth.
"Really." I kissed the top of his head, which made him giggle.
"Oh boy!" he cheered. "Didja hear that, Matt-hew?" he looke next to him, "We get to be wiff Daddy!"
"Now if you'll excuse me," I lifted him up and set him carefully back on the floor. "I have work to do."
Alfred frowned again. "Okay..."
That night I made three important phone calls. And the next day, I woke up not at the crack of dawn but around noon with Alfred, made brunch, and went outside with him to the lemonade stand.
I didn't go into work that day. Or the day after. Or the day after that.
Some things are more important.