After the Wave

Chapter 12
A Brief History of the Mannings

Chapter Description: Just who are these "kids" to whom the narrator's been telling these stories?

Chapter XII: A Brief History of the Mannings

Bob Manning was born in 1972 in Floyds Knobs, Indiana. In 1978, he met his soon-to-be-wife, Linda; they married in 1994 at the age of twenty-two. The newlyweds moved to a suburb of Chicago and had a single son, Peter, in 1996.

And, in fact, he’d been enjoying it for 36 years.

Well, kids, how did you like the stories?

A six-year-old boy and a six-year-old girl sat side-by-side on a love seat, pouting, arms crossed. The former was dressed in Winnie the Pooh overalls that barely reached his knees, and the latter was garbed in a frilly dress which would seem more appropriate as a Hallowe’en costume for a little girl half her age. If looks could kill, the storyteller in the opposing chair wouldn’t have stood a chance.

“We already knew the stories, Peter,” his father spat, in a comically soprano voice of which Peter never tired. “We lived through the goddamned Wave.”

Indeed they had. They had both come out of it as six-month-olds, and their 18-year-old son had to learn to parent very quickly. But six must not have been Bobby and Linda’s lucky number, because they never grew one single second older than six years of age.

Now, now, Bobby. If you’re going to use no-no words in front of Daddy, you’re going to have to get another spanking. And then an afternoon of diaper punishment. You wouldn’t want that, would you?

“B--but you use naughty words all the time! Right in your stories!” Little Bobby Manning felt his lower lip tremble. His eyes began to water, but he managed to restrain the tears.

I asked a “yes” or “no” question. If you’re going to add additional words to your answer, they had better be “Daddy” and an apology. Do you want to be back in diapers or not?

“N--no, Daddy,” he told his son. “I’m sorry.” He was already ashamed enough to have to wear them at night. Even after over three decades of practice, hope, and even prayer... his bladder simply refused to wake him up.

Good. I’m going to go fix dinner. It’s macaroni and cheese wheels, broccoli, and chocolate milk. Now, you and Linda go upstairs and do your math homework. I’m sick of receiving calls from Miss McGlynn implying that I’m a bad legal guardian because you didn’t bother to do it on account of it being too “boring” and that you “know calculus.”

Linda proceeded timidly. “But I do know--”

“UP!!”

The six-year-old couple trudged up the stairs. And since Peter couldn’t see it, Bobby allowed a tear to fall down his cheek.