A Blanket Unwoven
Drive
“Bye.”
I wave to my friends, get in the car and settle in the middle back seat, wedged in-between my sisters.
Three hundred and ten miles with two kids. Fun.
**
“Mom,” Annabelle whines, again. “I'm—”
“—bored,” her mother says for her. “I know, honey. Why don't you play a game with Megan?”
I look up from my book. My mother is casting me a pleading look. I sigh and snap my book shut.
Mom smiles warmly, a silent thanks.
At least Lillian is asleep.
The toddler stirs, stretches her little hands and wakes up.
I try not to roll her eyes.
“Hungry,” Lillian moans.
Mom hands her a plain biscuit. Great. She'll eat it and the seat will get gunked with chewed-up, drooled-on biscuit.
And who's the poor person stuck cleaning it five minutes later?
Me.
“Meg, I wanna play,” Annabelle whines.
**
“Are we there yet?” Ah. The ever-famous question.
“Not yet.”
**
“Are we there yet?” Annabelle asks again, ten minutes later.
“Not yet,” our parents answer.
**
“Are we there yet?” Annabelle asks, yet again.
The only reason nobody yells is because she's six.
“No.”
But the answers get stiffer.
**
“Are we there—” Well. It is a few hours later. But it still bothers me.
“No, Annabelle, we are not there—”
“Megan! Stop being so rude. No, sweetie, we're not there yet. Another thirty minutes,” our mother, the mediator, says.
Put on earth to stop World War Three.
If it wasn't for mothers there'd be World War One Billion by now.
**
“Are we—”
“Yes.”
I sigh with deep relief. I've only been able to read five chapters since we left.
I wave to my friends, get in the car and settle in the middle back seat, wedged in-between my sisters.
Three hundred and ten miles with two kids. Fun.
**
“Mom,” Annabelle whines, again. “I'm—”
“—bored,” her mother says for her. “I know, honey. Why don't you play a game with Megan?”
I look up from my book. My mother is casting me a pleading look. I sigh and snap my book shut.
Mom smiles warmly, a silent thanks.
At least Lillian is asleep.
The toddler stirs, stretches her little hands and wakes up.
I try not to roll her eyes.
“Hungry,” Lillian moans.
Mom hands her a plain biscuit. Great. She'll eat it and the seat will get gunked with chewed-up, drooled-on biscuit.
And who's the poor person stuck cleaning it five minutes later?
Me.
“Meg, I wanna play,” Annabelle whines.
**
“Are we there yet?” Ah. The ever-famous question.
“Not yet.”
**
“Are we there yet?” Annabelle asks again, ten minutes later.
“Not yet,” our parents answer.
**
“Are we there yet?” Annabelle asks, yet again.
The only reason nobody yells is because she's six.
“No.”
But the answers get stiffer.
**
“Are we there—” Well. It is a few hours later. But it still bothers me.
“No, Annabelle, we are not there—”
“Megan! Stop being so rude. No, sweetie, we're not there yet. Another thirty minutes,” our mother, the mediator, says.
Put on earth to stop World War Three.
If it wasn't for mothers there'd be World War One Billion by now.
**
“Are we—”
“Yes.”
I sigh with deep relief. I've only been able to read five chapters since we left.