Dad for a Day (and a Half)

I've been in charge of my little sister for the past day and a half. My (past and future) job requires me to interact with a lot of kids, and at the risk of sounding like a huge homer, my sister is one of the more lovable kids I've ever met. Let me tell you a little bit about her, for context sake. She's twelve, but a young twelve. So she still thinks I'm cool, and still acts like a kid, albeit a kid with acne, and who's almost taller than both of my parents. Many things confuse her in an endearing way. She doesn't quite know how to be a "girly-girl," nor does she have any interest in becoming one. She prefers to talk to boys, since apparently they are more pleasant company. Something to do with a willingness to making hilarious jokes, and being unconcerned with eyeliner. She's not interested in boys per se, just the general idea of peers who don't take themselves too seriously. Peer pressure is just beginning to exert itself on her attitudes and habits, but tangentially, often as awareness without action. This tends to manifest as "if I were cool..." statements. For example, "If I were cool, I'd be more boy crazy." But she's aware that she's not. And that's cool by me. My sister loves getting hugs, loves greeting people at the doorway (these events tend to co-occur frequently), loves being cheeky, and loves to chat. Usually our conversations go something like this:

Me: Hey sis, what did you do today?

Sis: Well today...(lists 10 things that happened and her feelings regarding each)

Me: That's cool. Today, I took a nap.

Sis: I think my day was more interesting.

Me. Tell me about it. 

My sister does not like trying new things, especially if she underestimates her own abilities to perform novel actions. This happens much too frequently, to the point where I worry about her self-esteem. She is a walking paradox, in that she is super friendly, but has few friends. It appears that her best friend is not even a very good conversationalist. I suspect that my sister makes up for both of them.

And now, my parents are off to an exotic locale Ottawa, and I'm left in charge of this bubbly tweener. Not sure she knows what she signed up for. Sunday afternoon goes quite smoothly. I promise her that if she finishes her six (!) pieces of homework, we can go watch a movie. I promise that I'll work right alongside her. I work with her for about an hour, then television beckons. It is after all Sunday afternoon and there are subsequently at least four types of sporting events that require my immediate attention. It's not my fault that I have a Y chromosome. My sister, like a true professional, cuts a swath of destruction through her assignments, with only two minor YouTube breaks, as far as I can tell. I learn that Victoria Justice has her own television show, and also a bevy of low production music videos. Why does every young celeb have to cross-over nowadays? As promised, we look online to select a movie, and the choices for her age group are clear: Spykids 4D or Lion King 3D. Now quite apart from the delights of the Fourth Dimension (not Time my friends, but smell), one reason above all inspired my preference for Spykids:

Don't judge me. Luckily my sister agreed with my choice. It was a pretty awesome movie. For many reasons. I'm feeling pretty good about myself afterwards, not only have I ensured that my sister will progress academically, but I've provided age appropriate entertainment, for all ages. Then the bombshell. My sister remembers that she had tutoring that evening at 6:00, the movie started at 6:30. Crap. She is somewhat distraught, although in a gleeful way. I'm gutted. I offer to take full responsibility for my actions and shield her from blame. It's the least I can do for letting me watch Jessica Alba for two hours.

Out of that failure came a new found desire to be the best possible caregiver for the next night and day. I would iron her clothes, teach her to tie a tie, provide two highly nutritious meals, and drop her off at school at precisely the right moment. She would arrive and there would be no noticeable drop-off in her standard of care as judged by peers and faculty. She would not smell. I attacked these tasks with vigor. In short order, lunch was ready, pizza, grapes, cookies, all neatly packaged, despite the nearly overwhelming task of choosing the correct storage container. Note the container specifically designed for pizza that alas, I noticed much too late. Hopefully, her pizza will maintain its shape without support.

My sister was off to bed at a reasonable hour, with all aspects of school preparation complete. Kids need a surprising amount of stuff for school. My Dad calls to check in on me and I'm proud to report all is quiet on the home front.

The next day, I wake up at the crack of dawn to complete the last of my challenges as faux father. Breakfast. I hear its the most nutritious meal of the day. That's a lot to live up to. My sister requested toast with butter, I feel like that's well within my culinary capacities. I get over-confident and decide to up the ante. There will be protein, there will be scrambled eggs! I tackle this task with gusto, whipping up a frothy mixture of eggs, sea salt, and love. I add oil to a frying pan and tend to my meal with a measured intensity. The textures is perfect. I taste. What the hell. It's over-seasoned, I've added olive oil instead of canola. Rookie mistakes! It tastes like salty olives. I momentarily panic and consider eating my failure myself. She'd never know. After considering my options, I decide to let her decide for herself. My sister saunters down the stairwell and I'm informed that its standard procedure to eat in the car on route to school. Now, not only will my eggs taste like they've been marinated in the Dead Sea, but they will be cold as ice. I'm incredibly nervous. We pile all of her assorted book bags, notebook computer, water bottle, lunch bag etc. in the back seat. I make pleasant conversation as we drive, carefully noting her demeanor towards her meal. She picks up a small piece of egg and tastes it. I hold my breath. She puts her fork down and starts to talk to me about her upcoming school day. I only want her to tell me about her upcoming mouthful. The tension is too much, I break down and tell her that the eggs are salty, and that she could salvage her meal by heaping them on the bland toast, hopefully providing a buffer against hypertension. She agrees. She finishes the meal.

 Salvation. Now I need to set a reminder to pick her up from school. That could be embarrassing. Watch out fatherhood, I'm coming for you!