My clones were a challenging, but rewarding experience.
“How was practice?” I asked, trying to sound upbeat; although, Royal, my oldest at 14, didn’t look so hot.
“Awful!” she swung her gear into the mini-van’s backseat and dropped into the passenger side chair. “Stupid coach Gregory doesn’t know anything!”
I waved to the new coach as I pulled away from the field, a bulky woman who looked like she could crush bowling balls between her thighs. Royal flipped the woman the bird, but below the dashboard so she wouldn’t see it. She was covered in dirt, had her hair pulled back into a pony tail, and had stripped her uniform down to her sports bra. I had no idea we were capable of looking so butch.
“That’s not very mature,” I noted, and my daughter looked at me.
“She took me off left attack wing to play defense,” she grumbled. “Me! Playing defense! It was awful!” I scrunched my mouth disapprovingly as she put her kleeted shoes on the dashboard, untying them and pulling her shin guards out of her socks.
I opted to pass on that fight to engage Royal’s drama with her coach, “So you’re getting some new experiences—“
“Mom,” she moaned. “I totally sucked out there! It’s not fair! I’m offense. I’ve always played offense. That stupid bitch—“
Language! I warned firmly… in my mind. I chose to let the infraction slip.
“—doesn’t know what she’s doing!” Royal flung herself back into the seat, crossing her arms over her chest. “Hmph!”
I remembered flinging myself into similar obstinances as a child, but Royal was getting too old for this.
“You know, pouting is very unattractive,” I told her calmly. It was important not to get reactionary. While my inner self was reeling with how bratty this mini-me was acting, I had to keep it impersonal. Royal wasn’t me. I was raising her to be better than me.
“Obviously the coach has a lot of confidence in you,” I started out, a rhetorical path taking shape in my mind.
“How’s that?” Royal huffed, but did uncross her arms and resume a little emotional control of herself.
“Think about it,” I said, turning down the radio so it wouldn’t compete with my pep talk. “She’s training you for other positions. If she thought you were only good at offense, she wouldn’t be trying you on defense. She’s giving you a variety perspectives of the field, so you’ll better understand the team as a whole.” I smiled inwardly. It sounded so good even I was convinced.
“What for?” Royal asked.
Here I unloaded the kicker. I shrugged and said, “She’s probably looking for a potential team captain.”
“Oh,” Royal looked thoughtful, and shot a sideways glance at me. “You really think so?”
“Why else would she take her best left-attack-winger off the front lines to play defense?” I asked, and added, “Of course, being Team Captain is a lot more than just knowing the game. It takes a whole lot of character too, responsibility and the ability to stand tall in the face of adversity.” Or something like that. “Think about what it takes to be a leader. Plus think about how good it will look on your transcripts. You might want to go into management one day.”
Royal sat up straighter and nodded, “Yeah.”
We pulled up to the house and Royal got out of the car. “I’ll make dinner tonight mom,” she said, holding the door open. “How’s Spaghetti sound?”
“That would be awesome,” I smiled. She shut the door and I pulled away. I felt like I had just hit one out of the park.
Kids are so easy. They focus on whatever you steer them to through gentle encouragements. So many people waste their energies always telling their children what they’re doing wrong, when they should focus on directing their kids to doing what’s right. Positive reinforcement works so much better than other kinds of discipline. Psychologists have been saying that for decades, but nobody ever listens.
I was a few blocks down the road, when my phone chimed twice, signaling a message waiting. I frowned at it. I hadn’t heard it ring, so someone had deliberately gone straight to my voice mail.
“Retrieving message one,” the automated system announced when I dialed into it.
“My contractions started at 5 am this morning,” my mother’s voice came over the phone. “I knew from the start you were going to be a special child. The contractions were easy and gradual. At this time of the day, around 11 AM, I took a warm bath to wait for your arrival.”
My heart warmed, and I saved the message for repeat plays later tonight.
My 13-year-old clone, Augusta stood with impeccable posture outside the recreation center. Her yoga-mat was slung over one shoulder as she spoke with her teacher. Her clothes were loose and airy, billowing in the light breeze. Her hair was clipped short, with those lesbian-like bangs I was trying to get her to clip by pointing out more attractive styles on other women. I smiled with admiration watching her, however. My butt had never looked that good.
She pranced over to the van as I pulled up and lightly set onto the passenger seat. She sat upright so that she did not touch the seat back. I watched her teeter there as I pulled away, her earrings dangling.
“You never rest,” I noted proudly. “You’re gonna make a fantastic personal trainer one day.”
She smiled and reached up to fondle the necklace I’d bought her awhile back. It was a tiny symbol that meant, “Ommmmm…”
“This strengthens my abs,” she said.
“It’s good to have a strong center,” I affirmed. “Royal’s making spaghetti for dinner.”
Augusta’s eyebrows turned out with concern, “She better make the meat optional and use olive oil instead of butter.”
Augusta was a vegan, no animal products, while Royal was all about protein and red meat. One version of me, Augusta, was rail thin and the other, Royal, was stocky as a result. Both versions were the result of my gentle encouragements.
We pulled onto Main Street and slowed at the far end of downtown. Elizabeth, my 12-year-old, stood outside the science center wearing her little lab coat and looking as proud as can be. Her hair was a poofy birds-nest wobbling on top of her head. Her face and sleeves were smudged with ink and food dyes from the day’s activities. Augusta pursed her lips and shook her head slightly in disapproval.
Elizabeth swung the side door open, flung her backpack with her lab book, magnifying glass, and other sciency things on the back seat and climbed in. She and I exchanged smiles.
“It was so cool mom!” she said, snapping on her seat belt in the back seat. “Today we got to dissect a cat!”
Augusta let out a shocked squeak.
“Well that explains the smell,” I said approvingly.
“It’s formaldehyde!” Elizabeth exclaimed, oblivious to Augusta’s disgust. “The cat was a stray from the pound and it had parasites and mange and—“
“That’s disgusting!” Augusta blurted out.
Elizabeth frowned, “No it’s not. It’s science.”
“It’s inhumane!” Augusta shot back.
“It’s expanding human knowledge,” Elizabeth pushed her glasses up on her nose. She was the only one of my clones who needed glasses. Apparently all the reading I had encouraged in her had made her nearsighted.
“At what cost?” Augusta demanded. “Would you carve up Nibbles?” She was referring to one of our seven house cats. We also had two dogs and three birds.
“It’s not carving up. It’s dissection,” Elizabeth countered.
“It’s gross!”
“Tell you lady’s what,” I interjected, pulling up to the house. “Why don’t you both do some investigating into animal research and have a debate? That way you can both learn how to argue your position better against other people who disagree with you. Okay? Go online once you get inside and search up on it.”
“I will,” Augusta declared and got out of the van.
“Will do,” Elizabeth said.
“My little LabRat,” I cooed, reaching back to tousle her hair in the
rear view mirror. “One day you’ll make a wonderful scientist.”
She grinned, got out, and joined her sister. I watched them march away and into the house, continuing to argue animatedly.
My phone let loose with “Flight of the Bumblebee” as I pulled up to the dojo. One of my older brothers, Cubert, spoke on the other end, “I am fulfilling my familial responsibility to call you on this most important of days.”
“Hey dummy,” I replied cheerfully.
“What are you up to? As if I can’t guess,” he asked.
“The usual, driving the girls around,” I answered, knowing I was opening myself up to criticism.
“You know,” he said, “you’re clones doing all these things isn’t the same as you doing them. You do know that, don’t you?”
“Of course,” I said. “It only means that I could have accomplished all these wonderful things.”
“No it doesn’t—“
“Oh yes it does!” I snapped, not with anger, but happy enthusiasm. “These kids have the exact same genes I do. That means they have the exact same potential. Anything they do, I could have done with the right encouragement and emotional support.”
“Yeah,” he said dismissively, “but you were always too lazy, too unmotivated to actually—“
“Because of environmental factors!” I was passionately defensive. “There was nothing inherently lazy about me as a person! Butthead!”
“Fine,” Cubert sniffed, “but you were still pretty damn lazy.”
“Fine,” I sniffed right back at him, “and now I’m a good little worker bee, unlike my big brother Cubert, the childless wonder, who works in a convenience store and lives in a one-bedroom apartment.”
There was cold silence on the other end, and I reveled in it. Finally Cubert said, “Your success is pure luck. Remember that.”
“Pure luck that I’m taking full advantage of,” I modified. “I’ve gotta go now. I’m picking Mary up from her Brazilian Jui Jitsu lessons.”
“I still say you should have enrolled her in Tai Kwon Do,” he sounded resentful.
“I want my little lady to be able to defend herself,” I stated innocently, knowing it was biting his ass. “Brazilian Jui Jitsu is practical that way.”
“Tai Kwon Do is practical too,” Cubert huffed. I smiled wickedly, having him on the defensive. “If Mary were to get a black belt like me, she’d have no problem defending herself.”
“Mary wants a little more of a challenge than a Tai Kwon Do black belt,” I stated truthfully. “Two years just seems like a really short timeframe for achieving something like that. She’ll have to take Brazilian Jui Jitsu for 8 to 15 years to get her blackbelt under sensei Hamada.”
“A black belt that isn’t worth anything,” Cubert spat.
I narrowed my eyes, “Tell her that 8 years from now bro, and just watch how she kicks your ass!”
I clicked the phone off before he could reply.
“Uncle Cubert talking trash about Brazilian Kung Fu again?” Mary, age 11, asked as she climbed into the van.
I shrugged and tossed my head indifferently. She had a welt on the side of her head. I’d learned pretty quickly not to worry about it. Mary had bruises healing all over her body, and didn’t mind them. Her hair was buzz-cut, which I approved of a little more than the mowhawk she had previously.
“Don’t worry,” she assured me. “When I get my black belt, I’ll go kick Uncle Cubert’s butt for you.”
I smiled and laughed, “Good girl.”
“I’ll make him apologize to you and kiss your feet,” she added.
“You rock!” I shouted and held up my hand for a high five.
Mary hit it with a smack.
“It’s two in the afternoon now, and at this time your father drove me to the hospital. My contractions were coming every five minutes and lasting 50 seconds each. I wasn’t nervous, but excited. While my first pregnancy was difficult, you were my fifth and I was getting pretty good at child birth…”
I rolled my eyes and blushed, Love you too mom.
She was still describing her thoughts, feelings, and color of the drapes in the hospital room, which apparently hadn’t matched the paint very well, when I pulled into Patricia’s driveway to pick up Sophia. I bounced in my seat anxiously waiting for my mother’s message to finish. I could always save it for later, but then I’d have to listen through everything I’d already listened through again. I could always hit “3” and delete it mid-message, but there might be a quiz on the material later.
Sophia, my 10 year old, appeared at the window and waved to me. I waved in return, phone still pressed to my head. Sophia’s head cocked curiously and I knew what anxious thought was running through her head.
Okay mom, she was thinking, you can come get me now.
Finally I gave up and hit “7” to save the message so it could torment me later tonight. Mrs. Burby was standing outside the house now, giving me a great big beaming smile.
“Hi,” I hoped my smile wasn’t too nervous.
“Hello there!” Mrs. Burby waved, bouncing on her tiptoes.
“I hope Sophia wasn’t any trouble--,” I caught my balance as my daughter wrapped her arms around my leg as if I were a life preserver in the ocean during a category five hurricane.
“Sophia looks so much like you, it’s amazing,” Mrs. Burby noted.
I shrugged and said nonchalantly, “That’s because she’s a clone of me.”
I always made a point of letting people know my daughters were also my clones. I was proud of raising six copies of myself, and I wanted my daughters to be proud of me. Most people gave me momentary looks of horror when I told them, or seemed unsure how to respond. I didn’t get it. Cloning was a personal choice, it wasn’t as if my kids were deformed or physically challenged. They were just copies of myself.
“That’s so interesting!” Mrs. Burby exclaimed, putting her hand over her heart.
This was not the reaction I expected, “It’s… something.”
“You know, I always thought it would be so much fun to have a clone of myself,” Mrs. Burby became increasingly animated as she spoke, her smile growing ever wider, “but Todd wanted to go the natural route with our kids. Plus,” she rolled her eyes and tossed her head, “there was the whole costliness of the thing. I imagine it must be so interesting, though, you know? Like standing outside yourself, seeing a miniature version of yourself. Almost like reliving your life from the bleachers, but not exactly, right? It’s like,” she put her hands on her hips and looked down at Sophia, who hugged my leg a little tighter, “’There I am! That’s me, but it’s not me!’ You know?”
“Uh. Yeah,” I glanced nervously at my watch. Mrs. Burby’s daughter was huddled close to her mother’s knees. She and Sophia watched one another suspiciously. The play date had obviously not gone well.
“Is it easier raising clones?” Mrs. Burby asked, but didn’t let me answer. “I’ve always suspected it would be a little easier. You know? I mean, you sort of know what to expect. Right? They’re going to grow up just like you. They’ll have your tastes, your interests, your brain chemistry, your health—“
“I’m sorry,” I did a little involuntary curtsy to interrupt this babbling conversation-hog. Sophia had wrapped her long braids around my knees, and I was batting away her hands as she tried to tie them together, “I need to pick up another one of my daughters across town and I’m going to be late.”
I did another stupid curtsy, grabbed Sophia’s hand and made away for the mini-van.
“Mommy,” Sophia said, once we were safely inside and several blocks down the road. “I don’t want to go back there.”
“You shouldn’t let people like that bother you,” I said. “It’s builds character to practice social interactions with difficult people. One day you’ll be really good at dealing with anyone and then you can be a politician, if you want.”
“Does that mean I have to go back?”
“Hell no.”
“Dilated to 10 centimeters…”
My neck was getting a painful crick in it from holding the thin cell phone between my ear and shoulder. I really needed to invest in a headset, but I never seemed to have the time to spare for purchasing one.
“Mommy?” Amelia, my youngest at age nine, tugged on my sleeve.
I held up one finger without taking my hand from the steering wheel while trying to keep the cell phone pressed to my head.
“Contractions coming every 3 minutes…”
“Mom,” Amelia asserted a little more firmly.
“One sec sweety,” I whispered to her.
“Each contraction lasting more than a minute…”
“Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom,” Amelia tugged at my sleeve with each repetition.
“Shush dear,” I whispered.
“Doctor Geldfrey was such a nice young man--” Beep! Number 7 saved the message to torment me later.
I said to Amelia, “What is it dear?”
“My oboe lessons are back there,” she thumbed behind us.
“Oh,” I looked around. We were a half-mile down the road from the place. “So they are.”
The music store was too remote for me to go anywhere else while Amelia took her lessons. That was fine, because this hour was a chance to just relax, take a moment, listen to the radio, and veg-out. I savored this.
I sat upright when the “Flight of the Bumblebee” chimed on my phone.
“Don’t tell me you’re spending your 40th birthday driving your daughters around?” my old sister, Aislin’s voice was stern and disapprovingly.
“Familial responsibilities take priority,” I said, ready for a fight. “Just like you’re calling me when I’m sure you’d rather be doing something else.”
“My sister wins the lottery, and this is how she enjoys it,” big sis wondered aloud. “She could have bought a mansion, gone on a cruise, seen the world—but no, she has a half-dozen clones made of herself.”
“The color green doesn’t compliment you very well,” I quipped.
“I’m not jealous,” she answered. “I just don’t see the point. Why not marry, have kids?”
“Clones are easier,” I said. “
“Husbands make things easier too.”
“I’m working on that,” I said. “I’m looking into dating a gemellologist.”
“…”
“A person who studies twins…”
“Huh,” she uttered, completely missing my brilliantly comedic statement. “That’s probably you’re only hope at this point. I mean, what man would want to raise six copies of his wife? That’s like raising someone else’s kids, when he could be having his own.”
“You know I’m too much of a control freak to risk my children’s genetic outcomes to chance… What if one of them…” I left off, frowning and mentally biting my tongue.
There was a long silence before Aislin spoke again. When she finally did, her voice was noticeably resentful. “You don’t want to risk having a child born like Daryl,” she said.
“I didn’t say tha—“
“Oh please,” she interrupted. “You broke up with Jason right after I had him.”
“You know,” I offered. “You did get a pretty good deal on Dan,” I said, referring to her husband, “a life-long partner to help raise your kids and all you had to do is let him contribute half his genes to their DNA.” It was a sad attempt to change the subject.
“Don’t change the subject,” big sis warned. “Daryl may have developmental problems, but so do you if your so afraid of having children naturally that you’ll hide behind a gang of clones.”
“I gotta run. Amelia’s getting out of her oboe lesson,” I said, trying to sound unaffected. “I’ll talk to you later.”
I hung up and stared out the window, feeling guilty. I had to get out of that conversation before I let something slip that I couldn’t take back. Daryl was like a malignant growth to me, cancer, and I hated that I felt that way.
After awhile, Amelia, came out of the unassuming brick building. One hand carried the case for her oboe while the other patted at her hair, which was pulled up into a tight little bun. She climbed into the passenger side, telling me about her lesson. I responded with a series of encouraging sounds that were purely instinctual at this point.
“Mommy?”
The phone rang, and when I saw it was another one of my siblings, I decided to let them leave a message. I had too many brothers and sisters to speak with all of them on my birthday and take care of my clones.
“Mom.”
My sister was being so unfair. Who was she to tell me what I could and couldn’t do with my life? Did I criticize her for spending all her time tending to her invalid of a child? Wasting all her energies on a human being that wouldn’t live to see his twenties? I had every right to take precautions against the possibility of being stuck with that same fate.
“MOM!”
“Yes dear?”
“You’re not listening.”
“Sure I—“ I caught myself in the lie. “I’m sorry dear. What were you saying?”
“I don’t like playing the oboe.”
“You don’t’ want to be a famous musician one day and play with an orchestra?”
“Not if I have to play the oboe.”
“Oooookay,” I tossed my head, trying to hide my disappointment. “What do you want to be?” For once I simply didn’t feel like praising my clone back onto the track I’d predetermined for her.
She shrugged, “What can I be when I grow up?”
“You can be anything you want to be,” I smiled cheerfully. “You could even be President if you try hard enough.” I imagined that: First Clone President. Although really the first clone president would probably be a clone of a previous president. Like a Bush or a Kennedy.
My phone chimed. I wanted to ignore it, but it might be one of the girls leaving a message while I was on the phone with my sis.
“I reached down and touched your head just as it was breaching…”
Okay. So it wasn’t one of the girls.
Amelia was looking excited out of the corner of my eye. I could see the little gears turning in her head. Her knee bouncing, “I want to be…” She put her finger to her lips, thinking.
“Ten minutes later I was holding you to my breasts…”
Amelia frowned thoughtfully.
Ah, I considered, With freedom comes responsibility.
“Mom?” she asked me.
“And at this time, I had given birth to my beautiful baby, Tailee, seven pounds, eight ounces, and a whole lifetime of—“ Beep! Seven to save.
“Yeah sweety?”
“What’s your job?”
I smiled knowingly and winked at her, “I’m a mommy.”
lance and peter’s clone