Twenty-four hours to go and we're outta here! Mom and Dad are taking us to Wavetown USA — the big water park. It's just water, slides, and no Krelboynes.
I'm ready to go, like, now, but my dad needs a day of preparation.
Mom slid the clippers along his hairy back with the skill of a race car driver. She clicked off the buzzing shears and admired her work.
"There you go, Hal," she said proudly. "All pink and shiny."
"Boys!" Dad called out.
Reese and I picked up two mirrors from the table. We held them behind Dad.
"I feel ten pounds lighter," Dad said, admiring his creamy-smooth and hairless back.
Some families have movie night or game night as bonding traditions. My family has "shave Dad's back." Usually, I don't look forward to it. I mean, who would? Right? I'm totally picking Dad hair off me for the next three days.
But for a trip to Wavetown USA? It's worth every hair-picking minute.
Dad braced himself against the table. Next came the one thing I've never understood about shaving: the aftershave lotion.
Mom poured a full bottle of it into a washcloth and smacked it onto my dad's back.
"Hoo-hoo-hoo. That stings! Ha-ha-ha," Dad exhaled as the cloth was peeled away.
"Smooth as a seal," Dad enthused, a tone of pain lingering in his voice. "I'm ready for that waterslide."
Back in the '70s, my dad was one of the coolest kids in school. Too bad that was, like, forever ago. He's still stuck in that ancient time when bands had stupid names like "Foghat."
"We haven't had an outing in quite a while," Mom added as she tossed the empty aftershave bottle in the trash. "It's nice when we can do things together as a family."
Wait a second. Is this my family? Everyone is happy. Everything is going well. Everything is —
Dewey. I knew this was too easy.
Dewey's like a tiny wind-up toy whose switch is stuck on high gear. He never sits still, not even when he's asleep. If he's not flopping around, rolling around, or kicking, he's thinking about flopping around, rolling around, or kicking.
He wandered into the kitchen and slid his feet through the mounds of Dad's hair like Kristi Yamaguchi through a triple lutz.
"What's everybody doing?" Dewey asked.
Mom and Dad exchanged a look.
Trouble.
First there was Francis, and he got all the loving attention of both my parents. Then Reese came and took all that away, and Francis made sure that once Reese was old enough, he paid. Then I came along, and Reese made sure that I paid twice for all the times Francis made him pay once. Then Dewey was born, and it was my job as older brother to make him pay just like Reese had done before me and Francis before him. It was like handing down a family tradition.
That's the way of the big brother. In fact, they wouldn't be big brothers if they weren't punching, headlocking, or humiliating you.
I think that's why Dewey's always sticking things in his mouth and ears. He's coping with three older brothers. I decided to not make Dewey pay, so
Reese happily stepped up and took my place.
My heart really goes out to the little guy. Honest. But if Dewey blows this for us . . . trust me . . .
He'll pay.
