Children are messy. Terribly messy, Ivan decides as he hands yet another napkin to the limitless capacity of energy that has chosen to take residence in the form of his older sister's five-year-old son, Aleksei. A mouthful befitting his boundless exuberance.
Children also enjoy the little things in life. Like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches cut into lopsided triangles. Which is, with what little time they have before they must get going, the only snack Ivan can prepare. Sweetly, the appreciation is no less than if he were to have whipped up a five-course meal. There is a lot of chewing with the mouth open, licking of the fingers and begging for seconds. Actions that are as flattering as they are sickening.
"Uncle Ivan, Uncle Ivan," Aleksei shouts, entirely too loud to be speaking to someone directly across the table from him. "I'm all finished! Can I have juice now, please?"
With jelly-sticky fingers, he holds out his clean plate, the surface polished by tongue and saliva. Ivan grimaces but takes it, pushing back in his chair to set it in the sink for washing later. He grabs a plastic cup (too scared Aleksei's restlessness will immediately end with a shattered glass) from the cabinet and treks through a labyrinth of toy automobiles to the refrigerator.
"What juice would you like?" he asks, holding up two jugs. "Orange or grape?"
Aleksei's answer is instantaneous. "Both!"
Odd. Ivan decides it may be best not to argue with the determination of a child so he pours the two juices into the plastic cup without comment. He stares at the concoction, mildly interested in the murky color before setting it down in front of the child, who, in dramatic display of his thirst, pants heavily with his tongue dangling.
The juice is consumed much quicker than the sandwiches. This time complete with a rumbling belch.
Children also struggle with manners, Ivan adds to his mental list of behaviors displayed by children; an interesting read of highly opinionated observations.
When the cup is also deposited into the sink, the juice back in the fridge, Aleksei slips out of his chair, raises his arms up high and exclaims, "Let's go!"
Then he's hightailing it out of the kitchen, causing Ivan to trip on a dump truck full of little green army men while in pursuit.
Everything becomes a game of cat and mouse after that. Up the hall, Ivan manages to wriggle on Aleksei's windbreaker. Down the hall, he struggles to squeeze his kicking feet into a pair of socks and sneakers that flash blue and red along the soles. Up the hall (again), he is huffing, bent over at the waist. Utterly exhausted. So the backpack is skipped for the day. He carries it to the car and prays that Aleksei will be too tired to jet down the street if he spots something interesting.
Suddenly, he remembers why he never settled down and had children.
The summer program Aleksei is enrolled in is easy to find. It is a small three-story building of multicolored brick squashed on a corner beside a library. The outside features paintings, assumedly done by children, done in vibrant colors. There are the classic portraits: stickmen, flowers, abstract images that are meant to resemble animals. Numbers, shapes, letters, alongside with popular cartoon animations.
Ivan does not get to examine too much because Aleksei is springing from the vehicle the moment the wheels stop turning. He goes to scold the child but sucks the words back into his mouth. The entire ride over was trouble-free, though a bit antsy, so he will let this minor misdemeanor go. At least he didn't run out into the street. That has to count for something.
"Uncle Ivan, Uncle Ivan," Aleksei yells from the entrance, gesturing wildly and bouncing on his toes.
"Yes, I am coming, Aleksei. Give me a minute. Stay right there."
It takes no longer than three seconds to turn to the backseat and grab Aleksei's backpack. It also takes no longer than three seconds for him to vanish. Hopefully, into the building and not out of it because Ivan is certain he is three seconds away from having a full-blown heart attack. An affliction that will be the result of a mere two hours of babysitting his nephew. Two down, approximately seven hundred and twenty to go.
The inside of Little Smiles—the name given atop the door in an array of differently colored handprints—is brighter than the outside, if possible. The walls are the color of the sky, a pale blue splattered with dozens of fluffy clouds. Taped to the walls are drawings similar to the ones he'd seen before alongside other arts and crafts; two dimensional projects made from popsicle sticks and so on. There doesn't appear to be an inch of space not covered with something made by a child. Ivan's own personal Hell.
Ivan trudges down the hall past doors with frosted glass and lines of armchairs for waiting. No Aleksei, no anyone. However, the sound of squeaky laughter and impending destruction is distinct, carrying to his ears in short chaotic bursts. There are dozens and dozens of kids scurrying about once he rounds the corner. Lots of yelling, lots of squealing. Still no Aleksei.
When a group of boys bursts from a room a few feet away with crumpled paper towels in wet hands, he thinks of the cup of juice his nephew had downed this morning. There had been no time for a bathroom break after. A logical explanation for the ants in his pants this morning and his haste to get out of the car.
Weaving his way through absentminded children and stepping over an indoor sandbox, Ivan cringes when he pushes the bathroom door open to a slippery floor. Water is everywhere due to three boys using the sinks as fountains, splashing and wetting one another. Their shirts sport large damp spots, their shoes leave muddy footprints. The second they spot him, they disperse in a chorus of snickers.
"Aleksei? Are you in here?" Ivan calls.
From the inside of a nearby stall, poorly stifled laughter follows.
Ivan takes that as a yes. He stoops down to examine the shoes of the giggling culprit and instantly identifies Aleksei's dancing sneakers blinking with colors.
He raps his knuckles against the door, musters up a stern voice. "You cannot keep running off like that, Aleksei."
"Why not?"
He is going to have a long, long chat with his sister about spoiling children and discipline. And he does not care if she cries.
"Because I said so. Now get out here before you are late," he says, refusing to explain the logic behind staying within sight in crowded areas.
The stall door swings open and out pops a head of cropped ashen-blonde hair decorated with tiny shreds of tissue. Ivan doesn't bother asking about, or even fixing it. He does not want to know. He leads Aleksei over to the sinks, sighing irritably when the boy chooses to jump in the surrounding puddles rather than step around them.
Aleksei's sneakers are soaked and his shirt is smeared with splotches of cloudy pink soap by the time they leave the bathroom. He'd also managed to add his own signature of smudged fingerprints to the mirrors when Ivan turned his back to grab an appropriate amount of paper towels.
Every step Aleksei takes gives a watery squelch. Eager to showcase his musical talent, the boy echoes with his own interpretation of the noise.
"Squishsquish, squish, squish," Aleksei sings, curling and uncurling his fingers around Ivan's own to the irregular beat. Then, "Uncle Ivan, Uncle Ivan!"
"Yes?"
"We walked past my class," he informs, grinning widely enough to show his missing two front teeth.
At the very least, it is cute enough to displace a smidgen of Ivan's anger. If not for that smile, Ivan would have punted Aleksei back to the car when he proceeded to trill the squish squish song as they travelled past their destination a second and a third time. When Ivan inquires why, all he gets is unintentional snark.
"Uncle Ivan. I didn't know you were blind, Uncle Ivan," Aleksei answers nonchalantly. Then pursues to lead Ivan by the hands into the room. Apparently, blindness is a condition that solely occurs outside of moving vehicles. "Alfred, Alfred! Did you know, my uncle is blind!"
Ivan feels like a circus animal. Tiny heads whip around to take in the spectacle that is him. The children cease cooking with their plastic kitchen items, stop molding their clay, drop their crayons and colored pencils, simply to stare at him. Ivan is preparing a statement about how he is, in fact, not blind when Alfred makes an appearance and all his thoughts are suddenly obliterated.
A little golden blonde tuft of hair is all he sees at first. Curious. It sprouts from the top of his head, bobbing and waving as if it is its own life form. His eyes are a startling blue reflective of a cloudless sky on a sweltering summer's day. Ivan finds himself wondering what they are like without a distracting pair of glasses in the way. He strides over with a streak of purple paint on his cheek and a grin that practically touches his ears. It's goofy, though nonetheless charming.
"Hiya! You must be Ivan," Alfred greets, thrusting out a hand coated in a yellow dust Ivan presumes is from chalk. "I'm Alfred. Katyusha said you'd be bringing Aleksei in today."
Ivan is too busy concentrating on keeping his gaze from wandering to the smooth legs sticking out of Alfred's cargo shorts to say anything remotely coherent. Instead, embarrassingly, he shoves Aleksei's backpack into the man's outstretched fingers and mumbles something that is miles away from being English.
If Alfred is offended by the blow-off, he does not show it. He tosses a hasty glance toward Aleksei and asks, "Rough day?"
What is the code of conduct for complaining about one hyperactive kid to someone who works with more than ten times that amount? Would it be inappropriate to pay them a compliment about their physical appearance and skip everything else?
"Yes." Seems like a suitable answer. Honest, not too whiny. Not at all long-winded.
It also makes Alfred throw his head back and laugh. Loud, rambunctious and overjoyed. Ivan feels weak in the knees, there's an odd pain in his chest and he thinks that he was wrong before, the heart attack begins here. Not the result of Aleksei obliviously skittering into trouble but the result of a man finding vast enjoyment in something so insignificant.
"Alfred, Alfred," Aleksei pipes up, most likely tired of being ignored in favor of vague adult conversation.
Alfred stoops down to give Aleksei his undivided attention. "What's up, little dude? Still stuck on the number two, huh? I've gotta admit, you've got dedication."
Ivan's confusion must be written all over his face because Alfred promptly explains.
"Every week Aleksei chooses a number and does things in patterns of said number. Last week was three. And what did you do, Aleksei?"
"Everything I ate had three parts to it!" Aleksei proclaims excitedly. "Mommy hated that one. This week I'm saying everyone's name twice!"
"Exactly! You're doing a great job so far, too," Alfred says, reaching out to ruffle Aleksei's hair, the bits of toilet paper fall to the floor like snow. "I'm assuming the reason you were late has something to do with making confetti in the bathroom. We'll have to talk about that later. For now, hurry and join the other kids at the table. I have something extra fun planned for the day."
"Cool!"
Miraculously, Aleksei does so without having to be told twice. Alfred doesn't even have to chase him in laps around the room. No need for creatively constructed threats either. Ivan is in awe, impressed. Ivan is jealous.
Jealous enough to question, "How do you do that?"
Alfred rights himself with a strained groan. "Do what?"
"Get him to listen without a thousand other problems arising," Ivan reiterates, looking over Alfred's shoulder to see that Aleksei is where he belongs. Behaving. Like a well-mannered child. Like a completely different child that Ivan is desperate for the manual to.
"Magic," Alfred responds in a dreamy voice, wiggling his fingers. "And a nice cookie every now and then."
Ivan chuckles, mildly amused. "Very smart."
Alfred shrugs, giving an adorably lopsided smile. "It worked on me when I was younger."
Something tumbles to the floor with a resounding clatter. Someone shrieks in distress. Then the entire room descends into chaos; a worrying racket of falling items and shouting voices. A paper plane flies through the air and knocks into the back of Alfred's head. The kids are no longer sitting but jumping and galloping around, hooting and hollering. Ivan, horrifying reminded of a zoo by all the unruly activity, is ready to leave.
"Uh," Alfred begins awkwardly, visibly torn. "Well, I've got kids to strang—I mean, wrangle. Gotta work my magic. Sorry, Ivan! See you later."
Ivan, disappointed to have their conversation cut short, nods understandingly. He waves, feeling somewhat stupid as he watches Alfred retreat, each footstep synced with the ragged beating of his heart.
Children are impatient little devils.
When Ivan is back home and ridding the kitchen floor of hazardous toys, Alfred's jovial (hopeful?) see you later continuously playing in his head, he thinks that maybe that one applies to adults, too.
author's note: just trying something new. thoughts?