(no subject)
Laura's quirks drive Caitlin into our room when everyone is healthy. When one of us is sick, there's no escaping temperature checks and the barrage of questions. When she and I both had a cold at the beginning of the year, between disinfecting every possible surface where germs could hang out, I called across the suite at one point: "Hey Caitlin! Trade you some Mucinex for Vitimin C!"
"Done!" she called back, and Iaughed about it later when I told my mom about it. Now that Tara has a concussion, it's almost unbearable, her clucking and mother henning. I'm all for babying, and pampering each other. Every girl needs someone to treat her like a princess when she feels sick, but no one needs someone else to harass them about when to go to bed or what to eat. We're all adults, and can sink or swim on our own.
But maybe that's just the state of my terrible heart. What she says isn't stupid, she's not asking us to stick our hands in the blender or to smoke weed. She brings sensible, penny loafer advice, but wrapped in a forceful package. Last night, I locked the door behind her. "I don't believe you're actually going to bed!" she says, pounded on the door with her fists.
I groan. Not that it's her responsibility to tuck Tara, who slept from seven in the morning to ten at night, into bed again, becuase Tara's a Big Girl, who lives four hundred miles from her parents. "Sorry!" I shout back, "The door's broken!" and then she keeps pounding: "I can't come to the door because I am certafiably in bed, and so is Tara." She persists, so I relent. When I open the door, she thrusts her head in, and then an arm, holding half a bottle of water, telling me Tara needs to drink the next time she wakes up.
"Goodnight," I respond dully, pushing her out of the door. I lock it again as Tara pretends to snore, and then put music on quickly so I can legitimately not hear any future knocking.
"Night Tara," I wisper across our room, which is too-bright from the floodlights outside our window, and too loud from the kids that hang out in the hallway until curfew.
"Night," she says back, in a small voice. "And shhh. We're sleeping, remember." I smile conspiratorially at her, even though she can't see me. "Rodger that."
"Done!" she called back, and Iaughed about it later when I told my mom about it. Now that Tara has a concussion, it's almost unbearable, her clucking and mother henning. I'm all for babying, and pampering each other. Every girl needs someone to treat her like a princess when she feels sick, but no one needs someone else to harass them about when to go to bed or what to eat. We're all adults, and can sink or swim on our own.
But maybe that's just the state of my terrible heart. What she says isn't stupid, she's not asking us to stick our hands in the blender or to smoke weed. She brings sensible, penny loafer advice, but wrapped in a forceful package. Last night, I locked the door behind her. "I don't believe you're actually going to bed!" she says, pounded on the door with her fists.
I groan. Not that it's her responsibility to tuck Tara, who slept from seven in the morning to ten at night, into bed again, becuase Tara's a Big Girl, who lives four hundred miles from her parents. "Sorry!" I shout back, "The door's broken!" and then she keeps pounding: "I can't come to the door because I am certafiably in bed, and so is Tara." She persists, so I relent. When I open the door, she thrusts her head in, and then an arm, holding half a bottle of water, telling me Tara needs to drink the next time she wakes up.
"Goodnight," I respond dully, pushing her out of the door. I lock it again as Tara pretends to snore, and then put music on quickly so I can legitimately not hear any future knocking.
"Night Tara," I wisper across our room, which is too-bright from the floodlights outside our window, and too loud from the kids that hang out in the hallway until curfew.
"Night," she says back, in a small voice. "And shhh. We're sleeping, remember." I smile conspiratorially at her, even though she can't see me. "Rodger that."