He sighs. “You don’t remember how to make pancakes. Do you?”
I consider pretending that I do, but what would be the point?
“No.” I shrug. “Do you?”
He nods, his hair sticking up in a cowlick. “Come on.”
I follow him to the kitchen, and then he points out all the ingredients. “A cup of pancake mix. Two eggs. A spoonful of oil. A cup of water. Put it in the blender.”
I scratch my chin and consider him. “That’s it?”
“Yup. That’s it.”
Huh. Well, that’s easier than I thought it’d be. Elijah grabs the ingredients and I dump them in the blender. While I do, the other two, Tanner and…what’s her name, dang it, what’s her name, file in and stand at the kitchen entry watching me.
“Now you push blend.” Elijah nods at the button on the blender.
I consider the kids. Elijah is a serious kid, that much is obvious. I wonder where he got that from? Maybe I’m serious? His mom doesn’t seem to be. He watches me solemnly and nods at the button. “You push blend.”
The other two stand there silently watching. Tanner’s freckles are darker this morning, probably from the sun he got playing in the yard last night. He has his bottom lip between his teeth. The little one, her eyes are big and round.
For some reason, my intuition is telling me something’s up. I look at the ceiling. There isn’t a basket of eggs up there, but still…
“I just push blend?” I ask her. She wasn’t involved in the rotten egg trick, so she’s probably the most trustworthy.
Slowly, she nods her head, her chin bobbing up and down.
Alright.
I hit blend.
And all hell breaks loose.
Okay. No. I’m not foolish enough to fall for the blender without a lid trick. I lost my memory not my intelligence. But these kids are on a whole other level.
When I hit the blender button, the motor whirs, a fishing line that I hadn’t noticed twangs, it snaps tight, there’s a pulley, there’s gears, there’s chaos.
The microwave turns on. It starts popping and sparking like the Fourth of July, there’s a ball of tinfoil in there. I rush toward the microwave and yank open the door. When I do, I realize too late, that there was a bowl perched on the microwave top. It flips, hits me, and a gallon worth of chicken crap lands on my old man pajamas. The stench makes me gag. I swing around.
All the kids are staring with wide, amazed eyes, like they can’t believe their little trick actually worked.
“Again?” I shout. “Is this a daily occurrence? Is this my life?”
I lunge toward the sink and yank the faucet. When I do, the water spurts out the side in a geyser and smacks me in the face. I cough and sputter, swinging my arms trying to turn the darn thing off.
There’s a giggle behind me. It’s the little one. She’s laughing.
I swing around.
I cannot believe this. I’m going to…I just tripped over another bit of fishing line.
I stop at the clicking noise. A fan on the counter turns on and then a cloud of flour and chicken feathers sprays onto me. The flour dust and feathers swirl like a dust storm and I sneeze at them tickling my nose.
The little one giggles again.
I cross my arms and glare at my three kids. Feathers and flour stick to my chicken crap coated skin.
So help me…these kids aren’t mine. They’re the spawn of the devil.