The Revised Fundamentals of Caregiving Read Online Free Page B

that no matter how safe one plays it, no matter how one tries to minimize risk, to shelter oneself or one’s charge from the big bad world outside, accidents will happen.

any other day

    J une 12, 2007, begins like pretty much any other day in the Benjamin household. Toilets flushing, footsteps up and down the carpeted stairs, Buster scratching at the door to get out.
    Janet’s running late for surgery. She’d skip breakfast if I let her.
    â€œHave you seen the keys to the Jetta?” she calls down.
    â€œCheck in your coat pocket!”
    Piper pads into the kitchen in slippers, the hem of her bright red cape dragging on the linoleum. Yes, my child is wearing a cape—this is not unusual. Her hair is in a sleepy jumble. But already she’s bright-eyed at 7:45 a.m. During the school year, I had her up at 6:10 every morning, and she was a trouper.
    â€œJodi’s got a runny nose,” she announces.
    On cue, Jodi rumbles into the kitchen barefoot, every inch a boy, despite the grief I’ve taken for giving him a “girl’s” name. I should have named him Sylvester the Cat, to hear him talk. I can’t understand a word he says. Without Piper, his communications would be lost on all of us.
    â€œSquish-squish-squishity-squish,” he says.
    â€œHe wants cereal,” Piper explains.
    â€œToo late,” I say, skillet in hand. “Besides, we’re out.”
    â€œYou were right,” says Janet, dropping the keys in her purse as she strides into the kitchen.
    I corral them all around the breakfast table and dish them up just as the toaster pops. Piper promptly refuses to eat her eggs on the grounds of runniness, and Jodi begins feeding Buster his faux bacon.
    â€œJodi, stop that,” I say.
    â€œBuxuxer,” he says, grinning out from beneath his mountain of curly hair.
    I plate the toast and set it on the table.
    â€œPretty crummy weather for summer,” says Piper.
    â€œIt’ll burn off,” I say.
    â€œ Th at’s what you always say.”
    Janet sips her grapefruit juice and nibbles briskly around the edges of her unbuttered toast, as she scrolls through the Times.
    â€œDaddy, can I have yogurt instead?” says Piper.
    â€œFine,” I say. “Just put the plate by the sink. And don’t give your bacon to Buster. He’ll poop on the floor.”
    Jodi laughs, and snot runs out his nose. “Poop poop,” he says, then something else jumbled I can’t understand. When do we start talking about a speech pathologist?
    Piper carries her plate to the sink, lobbing Buster some bacon on the sly.
    â€œDo you have to read at the table?” I say to Janet.
    â€œYou’re right,” Janet says, pushing the paper aside, even as she finishes reading her sentence.
    â€œ Th ank you,” I say.
    She glances at the clock, takes a courtesy bite of her eggs. “So, what are you doing today?” she says, though I’m pretty sure I already went over it with her last night in bed. I suspect she’s just making conversation so she doesn’t seem like she’s in a hurry to leave.
    â€œTaking the kids to your mom and dad’s.”
    â€œLeaving them there?”
    â€œJust visiting.”
    â€œAre you shopping?”
    â€œYeah, afterward.”
    â€œDon’t forget Kleenex.”
    â€œI won’t.”
    â€œWhat about the rest of your day?”
    â€œProbably not much. Maybe go to the park if there’s time.”
    â€œSounds nice,” she says.
    â€œWhat’s that supposed to mean?”
    â€œIt’s not supposed to mean anything. It just sounds nice.”
    â€œYou know, you’re welcome to stay at home, Janet. I am employable, you know. At least marginally.”
    â€œI didn’t mean anything by it.”
    â€œWell, I sort of resent the implication that my life is easy just because I’m not performing colon surgery on a shih tzu.”
    â€œIt’s a