"Thank goodness Milk isn't explosive..."

We babysat Nate's little brother from Thursday night through Sunday afternoon, so that his mom could get some rest after being in the hospital earlier in the week.

He is a sweet kid and very bright and all that, but I must say that babysitting proved to be... Interesting. Take, for example, Friday night, when we took him out to dinner at Chili's (financing courtesy of generous parental figures). Now, you take a couple our age- you know, mid-to-late twentiesh- and a five-year-old that looks young for his age- and voila, instant assumption of parenthood, no questions asked. As stated above, Elliot is a great kid and everything and it's not like I'm embarrassed to be mistaken as his parent, except that, well... Nate and I are really BAD parents 'cause we have absolutely no experience with it! Anyone that happened to be at Chili's Friday night saw a perfectly normal-looking and -acting kid accompanied by two adults who looked totally clueless as to how to interact with him.

For example- upon entering the restaurant, Elliot immediately approached the hostess who greeted us and kissed her hand. Cute, right? Except at the time I was so startled that I didn't know whether to laugh, apologize, or what. When it was time to be seated another hostess spoke to us and I saw Elliot winding up (puckering up?) for the Approach, and I sort of held him back. The other hostess (the first one) smiled and asked, "Where did that come from? The hand kissing thing?"

And I? I had to go and open my big mouth and blurt out, "I really have no idea!! We really aren't his parents!! We just have him for the evening!"

And everyone within earshot gave us The Look: How could we disown this adorable child for doing something as cute as hand kissing?

Sigh. Why do I try?

Of course, our waitress just happened to be my boss's daughter. So I murmered the usual, "This is not our child (I haven't been lying at work for three years in saying we don't have kids) he is my husband's little brother yes there IS a large age difference, isn't there?" and then she brought his mac and cheese.

But of course, all that was smooth sailing compared to Sunday morning, at church: I took him to the 4's and 5's class, and the puzzled teacher (a woman we don't know too well) hesitantly asked, Is this your nephew?

"No," I replied, "it's my husband's little brother."

She laughed for 45 seconds straight. I really didn't know what to say to that.
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When Vivian and I were little, we dashed the hopes of aspiring gender-neutralizers everywhere: we played House a lot. In addition to the straightforward American Suburban Paradise model (or suburban heck, as Nate would call it), on particularly Creative days there were Alternative versions. There was "House: Antarctica Edition," where the bedsheet-over-chairs became our survival hut in the frozen North, and we made romantically desperate forays into the surrounding [shag carpet] to "find food." (I recall a particularly poignant episode in which big sis and I were deadlocked in heated debate: while I asserted that the value of salt was merely flavor enhancement, my elder sibling patiently (and then not so patiently) explained that we needed salt to PRESERVE THE FOOD. She has always been far more in touch with the practical side of reality than I.)

Then, in Mississippi, the Land of the Neverending Pine Forest, we made "bread" out of ever-abundant pine needles, so I guess that was like "House: Pioneer Edition." And even the plain-Jane version had its own tireless array of innovations: we could always argue over who had to suppress her burgeoning femininity to play the dad, and how many children we had, what was for supper, etc. Play time was a never-ending saga of Domestic bliss.

All of which is to preface... how do I break this to you gently? I was rather shocked to discover that Elliot didn't want to play house! We went to the playground together in the park next to our apartment complex (I think the correct phrase would be Elliot took me to the playground) and upon entering the typical bridge/castle/slide construction, he immediately deemed it to be-- get this-- a SPACE FORT. Furthermore, the quintessential roles of Mommy and Daddy were replaced by invading space aliens with guns that went- how do I describe it? Elliot had to patiently teach me how to make the noise: bZoom! bZoom! (Imagine high-pitched, emphasis on a fast Z sound. I think they were like the guns on Star Wars.)

And if I confess it, you won't be surprised: I am officially and certifiably No Good at "Invading Space Aliens Shooter Mutant Ninja Turtle Attack of Darth Vader War," or whatever it was we were playing. He pointed out The Enemy hiding behind trees and see-saws, and my aim was terrible. I had no Instinct when it came to attack, defend, retreat. I didn't even know The Secret Password, guys. Sheesh.

But I did the best I could, and at the end, to make up for my feelings of incompetence and worries that I'd quenched his masculine urges, I allowed him to Splash in the Puddles. Thoroughly. Until he was covered in mud. Then when we got home I made him take a bath, which was only finally agreed to upon the presentation of [makeshift] Bath Toys (like Legos.)

If I had asked him about the Alien Mommies and Daddies and Babies that wouldn't have helped anything, would it?