Chapter 6 - A Quiet Rebellion
The first hour of the Grandparents' Childcare Experiment went down in family history as the Golden Era of Chaos.
True to my word, I didn't lift a finger. I poured myself a second glass of wine, settled into the plush armchair by the roaring fieldstone fireplace, opened a psychological thriller I had brought along, and let the universe unfold.
From down the hall in the bunk room, muffled sounds of distress filtered through the wooden door.
"Arthur, for the love of heaven, hold him still! He's trying to put his foot inside the toy fire truck!" Mom’s voice shrieked, followed immediately by Ben letting out a theatrical, glass-shattering wail that suggested he was experiencing the greatest tragedy known to mankind.
"I am holding him, Evelyn! But he has the grip of a tiny wrestler!" Dad’s exhausted voice boomed back, accompanied by the frantic thumping of adult shoes running across hardwood floors.
Ava and Noah sat on the Persian rug in front of me, watching the closed door with rapt attention, occasionally giggling behind their hands.
"Do you think Grandma knows where the pull-ups are?" Noah whispered conspiratorially.
"Definitely not," Ava whispered back, grinning. "She didn't even read Aunt Jenna's yellow-highlighted emergency sheet. I saw her drop it in the recycling bin."
I turned a page in my book, taking a slow sip of wine. "Karma, kids, is a very patient and thorough teacher."
Around 7:00 PM, the door to the bunk room creaked open.
Mom emerged looking as though she had wrestled a small, mud-caked tornado and lost. Her hair was standing slightly on end, her festive holiday sweater had a suspicious smudge of apple sauce on the sleeve, and she was carrying a very sleepy, heavy-lidded Ben on her hip. Dad trudged behind her, dragging his feet like a man doing hard labor, carrying a crumpled pile of blankets and the infamous green tractor blanket.
They both looked over at me. I was sitting comfortably by the fire, bathed in warm amber light, reading my book in absolute tranquility.
Mom stopped dead in her tracks, her chest heaving slightly.
"He... he threw his peas across the room," Mom announced, her voice hollow, devoid of all its usual authoritative polish. "And then he refused to wear his dinosaur pajamas because he said the dinosaurs looked 'too angry.'"
"Did you check the secondary pajama drawer?" I asked without looking up from my page.
Dad let out a short, hollow laugh that sounded like a dry autumn leaf scraping across pavement. "Evelyn tried to put him in a polo shirt meant for a six-year-old. It didn't go well."
"Children have very specific fashion standards at age three," I noted mildly, turning another page.
Mom stared at me for a long moment, the fight completely drained out of her. The rigid posture that had defined her personality for decades finally slumped. She shifted Ben—who was now fast asleep with his thumb wedged securely in his mouth—to her other hip and let out a long, shuddering sigh.
"I hate you a little bit right now, Jenna," Mom said quietly, though there was no real venom left in it. Just utter, crushing defeat.
"I know, Mom," I said, looking up and offering her a soft, genuine smile. "Do you want me to take Ben? He’s usually out for the count once he crashes."
Mom hesitated, looking down at the heavy toddler in her arms. For a split second, a flicker of genuine maternal tenderness crossed her face—the same look she used to give Lauren and me when we were small and sick with the flu.
"No," Mom whispered, tightening her hold on him just a fraction. "No... I got him. Your father and I are going to go sit in the kitchen, drink some of that spiced cider I made, and figure out how to operate the microwave to heat up chicken nuggets."
Dad put a heavy, affectionate hand on Mom’s shoulder, looking just as battered but strangely bonded to her in their shared misery. "Lead on, Evelyn. Let's go conquer the kitchen."
As they shuffled away toward the back of the house, Ava looked up at me with wide, sparkling eyes.
"You know what, Aunt Jenna?" she whispered.
"What's that, bud?"
May you like
"I think Grandma is learning her lesson."
I smiled, closing my book and resting it on my lap. "Sometimes, Ava, people just need a little hands-on experience to understand how the world actually works."
