The Hooligans

        Four little faces are plastered against the picture window as I drive up and park along the curb. The driveway is narrow and at such a slope it’s easier to park on the street and walk across the grass to the door. Of the four faces, three are human. The Hooligans, as I call them, have been impatiently waiting for me to arrive. I usually have something for us to do together, but I never tell them ahead of time. The suspense kills them. The fourth face belongs to Diggory, the family ShiTzu-Poodle mix who is just as happy to see me as the girls. Yes, the Hooligans are sisters; three girls under the age of ten who keep their parents on their toes. Each is mischievous in her own way.

        The oldest, M., is the sweet, sensitive one who loves to copy her mom as she sings along during the song service at our church. Under all that sweetness is a little influencer who likes to spin a story to her advantage or who will “forget” instructions. When she was younger, she was notorious for sharing family secrets. As she matures she has learned to use discretion. One time, as she started to blab something to me about her parents, she stopped and said, “Maybe I shouldn’t say that.” Progress. M. is also the one who stood on a step stool at the sink in one of her father’s t-shirts and washed dishes. The shirt brushed the top of her feet and the sleeves dipped in the sudsy water every time she pulled a dish out of the sink to scrub with the sponge that was twice the size of her hand. It was a sweet little sight to see.

        T. is the textbook middle child. She will demand the attention her sisters tend to steal from her. At times her frustration will get the better of her as she elbows her way through to stand equal with her siblings. Once, I was taking care of them while their mother rested in her bedroom as she recovered from recent surgery. I had taken a brownie mix to bake and ice cream for sundaes. The youngest had just turned three and there were cupcakes left over from her party which their mother said they could have after supper. But I was going to make brownies and thought that would trump left over cupcakes. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Miss T. was so focused on having cupcakes she couldn’t see the better opportunity for chocolate overload. We finally negotiated she could have half a cupcake and brownie sundae too.

        Then there is Miss L. She shares my middle name which makes her special to me. L. is the typical baby of the family. She gets away with a lot by just flashing her coy little smile that lets you know she’s up to something, but it’s going to take a while to figure out what it is. When it gets too quiet in the house it usually means L. has gotten into something she shouldn’t. On the same day of the brownie crisis, I found L. opening band-aids one by one and sticking them to the counter. I put her on the floor and started to clean up the band-aids. The next time I turned around she had the roll of packing tape unrolled completely. It was stuck in her hair, on the counter, on the furniture, the dog . . . The picture is pretty clear. 

            It’s all water under the bridge as I leave, though. Each one gives me a fierce hug before I head for home. Even Diggory. While I don’t come anywhere close to being as special as their Nana, I think Aunt Renate is a pretty decent second. They’re also a pretty close second after my own grandsons.

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