“No.”
“Claude,” said Penn, “Mommy told you to go get ready for school.”
“Several times,” said Rosie.
“You can’t tell her no.”
“No,” said Claude.
“Claude. I am not going to ask you again. Go take off that dress and. Get. Ready. For. School.”
Claude stood up on the couch, clenched his fists straight out behind him like booster rockets, and yelled at the top of his tiny voice, “I am ready for school!” Then he threw himself onto the carpet and cried.
Rosie and Penn had a brief conversation with their eyeballs. Penn went up to change out of his robe and drive the boys to the bus stop. Rosie sat on the floor next to weeping Claude and rubbed his back.
“Claude. Honey. It’s time for school. Do you feel okay? Don’t you want to go see Ms. Danielle and Ms. Terese? Don’t you want to see Josie and Taya and Pia and Annlee?”
“I have to wear my dress.”
“Sweetheart, you cannot wear that dress to preschool.”
“Why not? Josie wears a dress to preschool. Taya and Pia and Annlee wear dresses to preschool.”
“Is that why you want to wear a dress? Because all your friends wear dresses?”
“I guess,” Claude guessed. “And tights.”
“Well. Usually boys don’t wear dresses to preschool,” Rosie admitted carefully. “Or tights.”
“I’m not usually,” said Claude. This, Rosie reflected, even at the time, was true.
“I think this dress is a little long for preschool,” Rosie tried. “Tea length is a bit formal for the occasion.”
“What’s tea length?”
“It means the dress comes down to your ankles. That would make it hard to run around on the playground. Aren’t your friends’ dresses pretty short so they can play?”
“But it’s my only one,” Claude whispered. “I didn’t know it was too formal.”
“And you’ve been wearing this dress all weekend. It’s dirty.”
“No it’s not.” Claude was still sniffling, still looking at the floor.
“Ladies don’t wear rumpled, dirty dresses.”
“They don’t?”
“No, they wear clean, pressed ones.”
“All ladies?”
“Well, real ladies,” said Rosie. She’d been tongue and cheeky—and exhausted already with a long day ahead—but this one came back to haunt her.
“Oh,” said Claude. “Okay.” And he toddled off to his room to change into a sweatshirt and jeans.
But in the car, his little voice piped up from the backseat. “Mama?”
“Yeah, baby.”
“I need another dress. A short, informal one for school.”
“Okay, love. We can talk about it when you get home.”
“Thank you, Mama.”
“Sure, honey.”
“And Mama?”
“Yeah, baby?”
“Will you to teach me how to do the washer and dryer and iron?”
“That’s Daddy’s job,” said Rosie.
“No, it’s mine,” said Claude. “For my new dress. Real ladies wear clean, pressed dresses.”
Didn’t you know then, the doctors said later? Weren’t you listening?
Losers
That night at bedtime, Claude was worried. “Daddy, is this too formal for bed?”
Penn looked up from cajoling Orion to brush the backs of his teeth too. Claude was wearing Rosie’s nightshirt, lavender with lace around the collar and hem. On Rosie, it came down just to the bottom of her underwear, which meant that every time she reached for something or moved too quickly or rolled over in bed, the nightshirt gave up the goods, at least a peek at the goods. On Claude, it came down to just above his ankles.
“It’s tea length,” Claude added, looking worried.
“I don’t think there’s a dress code for bed,” said Penn. “I wouldn’t worry about it. Orion, molars are teeth too, my friend.” Orion was wearing a-size-too-small green footy pajamas with the footies cut off so as to resemble as much as possible the Incredible Hulk. Rigel streaked by the bathroom in nothing at all.
“Boys,” Penn called. “It’s Monday. Roo’s room,” and from every corner of the house, seemingly from every corner of the Earth, naked, half-naked, and oddly dressed boys tumbled longways onto Roo’s bed, backs against the wall, shoulders pressed together, knees and elbows where knees and elbows aren’t meant to go, layered like lasagna.
“Get your bare ass off my pillow,” Roo shrieked at Rigel.
“Don’t say ‘ass,’ Roo.”
“But it’s on my pillow,” said Roo. “Where my head goes.”
“Get your bare ass off his pillow, Rigel,” said Penn. Rigel scooted his ass down the bed like Jupiter did along the carpet, which in fact seemed worse, but Roo was mollified.
“Your hair smells like bananas,” Ben complained to Claude.
“It’s no tears,” Claude explained.
“Just close your eyes,” said Ben. “Then you can use big-boy shampoo and not smell like bananas.”
“I don’t want to be a big boy,” said Claude.
“I don’t want to smell bananas during stories,” said Ben.
“Banana Boy Hulk smash!” Orion jumped up from his spot in the middle and began smashing his brothers indiscriminately in the face with Roo’s pillow.
“Ew, it smells like Rigel’s ass,” said Roo.
“My ass is awesome,” said Rigel.