Good ol' Mal. That's me. Good ol', reliable, responsible, red-headed, glasses wearing, brace faced Mallory Pike. I'm 11 years old and my family saddles me with so many responsibilities, you'd need two French-Canadian au pairs to handle it. Forget that, because the au pairs would ask to be paid and would cause an international stink when my cheapskate parents eventually balk at the concept of paying people for quality childcare.
But me? I'm not bitter.
This is my life: I'm always being cheated out of something good. It started the day I was born, May 2. This is exactly 24 hours after May 1, May Day, and 72 hours before Cinqo di Mayo. This way I get gypped out of having a proper birthday party because the BSC usually likes to organize May Day activities for the kids, and my parents throw a raging block party for Cinqo di Mayo. The only time they skipped it was the year I was born, and everyone within a ten block radius still moans about it - "the time the Pike's Cinqo party was a no go,". Sometimes my parents try to lump my birthday party in with their boozy celebrations, but that doesn't work out too well. Anyone who has a birthday around Christmastime knows what I'm talking about. When your birthday and a big event coincide, you get eclipsed, not the big event.
Sometimes it feels like I've been 11 forever.
My parents didn't really exact any sort of family planning, this much is obvious. My dad had just finished articling at his law firm, and was about to get a junior position when my mom got pregnant with me. My pregnant mom dropped out of her 7th year as an undergraduate English major (her talents were not academic in nature), and settled into having kids. I hear loose talk that after the triplets were born some idiot ob/gyn thought she was infertile, but Vanessa proved him wrong. Then Nicky proved him wrong again. Why my lawyer dad didn't sue for malpractice is beyond me, but my parents don't think about the practicalities like I do. They just meandered along with some half-cracked notion that they were like a real life, non-divorced Mike and Carol Brady. Heck, at least the Bradys had sense enough to hire Alice. I'm still convinced that the WB's 7th Heaven is a sanitized rip-off of the Pike family.
Until Claire was born my parents mooched off their own parents' desire to be around their grandchildren. By the time we had become 8 in number, Grandpa and Grandma Pike decided that Del Boca Vista, a planned retirement community in Florida, was more their speed. My mom's parents had already put their foot down shortly after Margo's surgery to correct her misshapen gall bladder at 7 months. You see, the nurses were so taken with Margo they fed her nothing but gourmet, organic babyfood, which led to a lifetime of finicky eating. All four of my grandparents were exasperated with the lot of us. No wonder.
So after Claire, I had to "help out more". You see, I was already six and my parents were eager to employ me in caring for babies I did not manufacture. Despite a houseful of infants, my parents still managed to run away to Stamford for community theater productions like Miss Saigon (which they saw three times) and Les Mis (ten frigging times!). During these evenings, my parents hired these one-time baby sitters from the Connecticut Babysitting Network. The sitters were generally neglectful, usually drunk or high, and at the end of the night had likely pocketed some of my mom's jewellery. Not that my parents seemed to mind or notice.
Then for awhile there were no more theater outings. My mom stayed at home and my dad seemed to always be at the office. "Being a lawyer is tough work," said my mom in a too-sweet baby voice, that even as an 8 year old, I thought was juvenile.
Back then, me and Kristy Thomas were great beta buddies. We had some fun times, but I was always to understand that Claudia and Mary-Anne were the alphas in her life. Actually, the less seen of me at Kristy's house the better, so we usually hung around the baseball diamond in the park, chomping on Big League Chew, a king among bubble gums in my opinion.
One day, in between bubbles, I tell Kristy how awesome it would be to grow up, be a teenager, and make money for babysitting. I feel I'm an all-fired expert at age 9, since I've been through nearly any child or infant related situation. Though since my mother terms it "help", I don't get paid. I'm even kind of excited at the prospect of my friends making some cash off my family, because at least it would get the other kids off my back.
Kristy grunts, horks her gum out, and starts telling me about how motor oil from the Junk Bucket spilled all over her favourite turtleneck. Her mom washed it, but she wants to know if she still reeks of oil. I lean in and pretend to sniff. Kristy never dignifies my ideas with a response. When I told her I wanted to be a writer, she let the most insane fart rip, and I left it at that.
I turn 10. My teeth begin to buck, so I get braces. It looks like I have yellow food stuck to all my teeth all the time, but my orthodontist thinks my braces look "clear". What does he think I am, simple? My vision begins to deteriorate but my parents put all their allotted money on my so-called clear braces, so they can't afford to get me contacts OR designer frames. I'm stuck with a clunky pair that look like bifocals, even though they aren't. All my siblings have brown or dirty blonde hair, but mine just gets redder. When we go out as a family, I feel like people think I'm a child from a love affair. I know all about love affairs, having peeked into a Harlequin or two of my mom's. The writing in them inspires me.
Kristy doesn't call to shoot the breeze and chew gum at the diamond anymore. She doesn't return my calls either.
The next time I hear from Kristy it's a message on my parents' answering machine:
"Hello Mr. and Mrs.Pike! This is Kristy Thomas calling to inform you that if you ever need a baby-sitter, feel free to call the Baby-Sitter's Club at KL..."
I'm seething with a rage as red as my hair. My mother is writing down all the details on little post-its. She's trying to get my attention now.
"Did you hear Mallory? Kristy's had a great idea..."
But me? I'm not bitter.
This is my life: I'm always being cheated out of something good. It started the day I was born, May 2. This is exactly 24 hours after May 1, May Day, and 72 hours before Cinqo di Mayo. This way I get gypped out of having a proper birthday party because the BSC usually likes to organize May Day activities for the kids, and my parents throw a raging block party for Cinqo di Mayo. The only time they skipped it was the year I was born, and everyone within a ten block radius still moans about it - "the time the Pike's Cinqo party was a no go,". Sometimes my parents try to lump my birthday party in with their boozy celebrations, but that doesn't work out too well. Anyone who has a birthday around Christmastime knows what I'm talking about. When your birthday and a big event coincide, you get eclipsed, not the big event.
Sometimes it feels like I've been 11 forever.
My parents didn't really exact any sort of family planning, this much is obvious. My dad had just finished articling at his law firm, and was about to get a junior position when my mom got pregnant with me. My pregnant mom dropped out of her 7th year as an undergraduate English major (her talents were not academic in nature), and settled into having kids. I hear loose talk that after the triplets were born some idiot ob/gyn thought she was infertile, but Vanessa proved him wrong. Then Nicky proved him wrong again. Why my lawyer dad didn't sue for malpractice is beyond me, but my parents don't think about the practicalities like I do. They just meandered along with some half-cracked notion that they were like a real life, non-divorced Mike and Carol Brady. Heck, at least the Bradys had sense enough to hire Alice. I'm still convinced that the WB's 7th Heaven is a sanitized rip-off of the Pike family.
Until Claire was born my parents mooched off their own parents' desire to be around their grandchildren. By the time we had become 8 in number, Grandpa and Grandma Pike decided that Del Boca Vista, a planned retirement community in Florida, was more their speed. My mom's parents had already put their foot down shortly after Margo's surgery to correct her misshapen gall bladder at 7 months. You see, the nurses were so taken with Margo they fed her nothing but gourmet, organic babyfood, which led to a lifetime of finicky eating. All four of my grandparents were exasperated with the lot of us. No wonder.
So after Claire, I had to "help out more". You see, I was already six and my parents were eager to employ me in caring for babies I did not manufacture. Despite a houseful of infants, my parents still managed to run away to Stamford for community theater productions like Miss Saigon (which they saw three times) and Les Mis (ten frigging times!). During these evenings, my parents hired these one-time baby sitters from the Connecticut Babysitting Network. The sitters were generally neglectful, usually drunk or high, and at the end of the night had likely pocketed some of my mom's jewellery. Not that my parents seemed to mind or notice.
Then for awhile there were no more theater outings. My mom stayed at home and my dad seemed to always be at the office. "Being a lawyer is tough work," said my mom in a too-sweet baby voice, that even as an 8 year old, I thought was juvenile.
Back then, me and Kristy Thomas were great beta buddies. We had some fun times, but I was always to understand that Claudia and Mary-Anne were the alphas in her life. Actually, the less seen of me at Kristy's house the better, so we usually hung around the baseball diamond in the park, chomping on Big League Chew, a king among bubble gums in my opinion.
One day, in between bubbles, I tell Kristy how awesome it would be to grow up, be a teenager, and make money for babysitting. I feel I'm an all-fired expert at age 9, since I've been through nearly any child or infant related situation. Though since my mother terms it "help", I don't get paid. I'm even kind of excited at the prospect of my friends making some cash off my family, because at least it would get the other kids off my back.
Kristy grunts, horks her gum out, and starts telling me about how motor oil from the Junk Bucket spilled all over her favourite turtleneck. Her mom washed it, but she wants to know if she still reeks of oil. I lean in and pretend to sniff. Kristy never dignifies my ideas with a response. When I told her I wanted to be a writer, she let the most insane fart rip, and I left it at that.
I turn 10. My teeth begin to buck, so I get braces. It looks like I have yellow food stuck to all my teeth all the time, but my orthodontist thinks my braces look "clear". What does he think I am, simple? My vision begins to deteriorate but my parents put all their allotted money on my so-called clear braces, so they can't afford to get me contacts OR designer frames. I'm stuck with a clunky pair that look like bifocals, even though they aren't. All my siblings have brown or dirty blonde hair, but mine just gets redder. When we go out as a family, I feel like people think I'm a child from a love affair. I know all about love affairs, having peeked into a Harlequin or two of my mom's. The writing in them inspires me.
Kristy doesn't call to shoot the breeze and chew gum at the diamond anymore. She doesn't return my calls either.
The next time I hear from Kristy it's a message on my parents' answering machine:
"Hello Mr. and Mrs.Pike! This is Kristy Thomas calling to inform you that if you ever need a baby-sitter, feel free to call the Baby-Sitter's Club at KL..."
I'm seething with a rage as red as my hair. My mother is writing down all the details on little post-its. She's trying to get my attention now.
"Did you hear Mallory? Kristy's had a great idea..."