Chores and children

Taking responsibility for little things

Today I woke up in a basement ADU I used to rent—at $600 a month, (my suggestion) it’s the most I’ve ever paid, which is both a sign of luck, privilege, and that time in San Francisco I shared a studio apartment with two Guatemalan guys named Omar while I searched Craigslist for a place that was rent-controlled. Anyway, a few years ago I rented this basement from my friends Justin and Becky in between fire seasons. Waking up in the old spot didn’t feel like deja vu, or like a 6 year old at a sleepover rejoining the world in utter disorientation. I was just peaceful. I’m dog-sitting for their grumpy little terrier, and he slept on the bed, which didn’t used to be allowed. The same rectangle of sky was visible out the window, except now the sun lit up their son’s picture books.

Kerby, the dog, currently wears a cone of bravery, which is like a cone of shame except that he got wounded defending a juicy tomato from two raccoons. Since then, in order to smuggle his antibiotics, Kerby eats cheese twice a day. He prefers an escort to the backyard at night, but he already seems happy to roll around in the grass and forget that there was any cost to victory. (I believe Justin kicked a raccoon, which may have contributed to the battle.)

So after the gym I took Kerby to my backyard for chores. He slept in a patch of sunlight. I ripped up a field of weeds, and met the neighbor girl, who either has a speech impediment or is tall for a toddler. All my estimates of children’s age are +/- 5 years. She leaned her elbows on the hip-high chain link fence while I worked, asking questions to my back. I mostly pretended I could understand, or I made noncommittal statements like, “Those holly leaves sure are sharp.” She was curious about my relationship with the family on the mirror half of my duplex. Is there a window inside the house where I can say hi to them? What happens if there are robbers, do you both call 911?

I had pruned branches off the trees on the fenceline, so when she complained about a branch scratching her forehead, I cut it away. This was a mistake. It had not occurred to her that I could cut a branch that was partly on her side of the fence. She wanted me to cut more of them. I politely explained I’d cut what I could reach, and was done for now.

“My dad has a tool,” she said.

So I returned to my weeds. Next thing I knew, there’s a little girl at the fence holding a rusty pair of two-foot loppers over her head like Conan the Barbarian wielding a holy sword. She said something in her toddler slur. “Yes, those are tall,” I replied.

“No! They’re DULL,” she clarified.

“Oh. Yeah, you shouldn’t use them until you sharpen them,” I said, digging my trowel under the roots of a particularly annoying blackberry.

“How do you do that?”

“You have to scrape it with a bastard file. But you’d need leather gloves, cause it’s sharp.”

“Okay!” she said. I looked up to see her running fast towards the house.

“It takes forever and it’s very boring! You don’t want to do it!”

It occurred to me that maybe I’m not as ready for children as I like to pretend.

The next time she appeared, she had commandeered a pair of hedge clippers. These, she explained, were also potentially helpful.

Having had time to strategize, I told her that tools were for adults. Skipping yardwork was one of the perks of being a kid. It did not feel like an honest answer. It felt like mimicking what I was supposed to say.

She disappeared into the house for more tools, military pressed a maple branch, and reported that her dad didn’t want her talking to me. This felt even more ominous. Luckily I’d weeded the whole yard. “Can we be friends?” she asked.

“If your dad doesn’t want you talking to me, maybe that’s not a good idea.”

“He doesn’t want me bothering you.”

So officially speaking, I made a friend, who I hope will have two eyes the next time I see her.