Caring for Your Monster

WAKING UP

When you open your eyes, check to see if the monster is creeping around. If he is, don’t move. Don’t even breathe. The monster doesn’t like being disturbed during his nightly wanderings. Close your eyes and go back to sleep—or at least pretend to. You’ve woken up too soon.

If you wake up and the room is clear, knock three times on the post of your bed frame. Whistle high, then whistle low. This will alert the monster: you are getting out of bed. You don’t want to startle him under there. He lashes out when he’s startled, and it would be hard to explain to your mom why yet another sock has a hole in it.

Get dressed quickly. You have to be downstairs eating breakfast by 6:42AM or else he’ll snap at your ankles with his long fangs (remember, no holes in socks). First shirt (left arm, right arm, head), then pants (left leg, right leg), then socks (left foot, right foot). Hum while you do it. The humming eases his anxiety. He’s a nervous guy under all that fur.

THE BUS

Most people don’t know, but the monster follows you everywhere you go. And he can also grow huge and fill a whole room. When he does, your heart will suddenly BA DOOM. Or he’ll slither into tight spots like an octopus and his eyes will look like twin moons compared to his body all squished down in there. That’s when you get the Being Watched creeps.

On the bus, he will squeeze into the seat next to you, flattening against the window until he’s a long noodle, his head towering up to the ceiling. You must sit in the third seat from the back on the left side, and the window must be a crack, even in winter, otherwise he feels like he can’t breathe and starts to panic.

When you get to school, you have to be the last person off the bus because the monster will whip anyone behind him with his tail. Sometimes the other kids will try to be polite and let you go ahead of them. If this happens, don’t make eye contact. You must grip the straps of your backpack and remain perfectly still. Stare at the floor. Soon they will roll their eyes and move on.

SCHOOL

There are a lot of rules at school. I’m not talking about classroom rules, I mean rules to placate the monster.

First, you have to hide behind the wall between the bushes and watch for Charlie Knox to pass by with his loud mouth and loud friends. Stay out of sight. As much as you want the monster to bite him, that wouldn’t be good at all. Then, count to one hundred and twenty—this gives Charlie time to get all the way to the seventh grade classroom and out of your fifth grade territory. Only then can you go in.

Next, you have to get to your locker without anyone saying “good morning” to you. The art teacher is definitely going to try. She’s quite garrulous. If she does, just duck your head and pretend you didn’t hear. The monster will be freaked out enough around all these people—puffed up like a frightened cat—no need to invite more attention your way.

You have exactly two minutes and forty seconds to get to your seat now, so hurry. Stack your books in the correct order: math, social studies, language, and science. Put your lunch box on its hook. Make sure the dinosaur is facing out. Get to you seat.

Don’t raise your hand in class, but always know the answer if you’re called on. If you don’t, the monster will get feverishly hot and his tummy will hurt all day so he won’t be able to eat the scraps you drop under your chair at lunch.

Most importantly, avoid Eloise Brooks at all costs. Don’t sit next to her, don’t walk by her, don’t even look at her. The monster gets unbearably timorous around Eloise. His heart stammers and his paws sweat and it makes him really angry to feel So Much. If she says “hi,” which she might because she is so nice and her locker is right next to yours, you must give a small nod, and say, “Hello.” Those two things together. No more, no less. Then pray she doesn’t ask you, “Did you understand the math homework?” There is no protocol for that. Godspeed. (But, listen, if you two meet again after all this school stuff is behind you, and if she asks you about what you do and do not understand again, be honest with her. She’ll like it. And maybe she’ll like you and you can add it to the list of things you don’t understand.)

COMING HOME

You will get home before your parents. This is the best time of the day, the hours of King of the World elation. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t rules to follow. When you get off the bus, run your hand through all the wind chimes hanging on the porch and check the mailbox for your next Hazard Hal novel. Throw open the front door and drop everything all at once on the kitchen floor. It should be one big satisfying thud. Leave it there. Run free. Put your shoes up on the couch. Spread comic books all over the dining table. Stare off into space without fear of someone asking, “What the heck are you doing?” That will come later.

Eat cereal at 3:55PM. Get your bowl with the blue stripe around the rim and fill it three quarters to the top with Pops. Fill bowl halfway with whole milk. It must be whole milk, not 2%. Put in one drop of water, otherwise the hairs on the back of the monster will raise up and he’ll be jumpy for the rest of the day. He’s superstitious like that. Then find your spoon—the one with the squared-off handle—and eat at your spot by the window, blinds open.

DINNER

Your parents come home sometime between 4:15 and 5:05. The closer you get to this arrival window, the more agitated the monster will get. Not because he doesn’t like your parents. He does. And so do you. But the Not Knowing is like pulling a rubber band tighter and tighter, until you’re sure it’s going to snap, or like falling and not knowing when you’re going to hit the bottom, or like carrying around a bee hive in your belly, the buzz zinging into your limbs and making you feel vaguely sick with its awful vibration. You can try to pass the time by reading or watching TV, but the monster is going to sit on top of you and the pressure of all his weight squash the air out of your lungs. No cleaning up your mess either, because he will hang on your ankles like deadweight. You can try to explain that mom will be mad, but he won’t care. The only thing to assuage his antsy-ness is perching on the edge of the couch and tapping your knees to a beat. Any song from Mario or Zelda will do. It sounds too simple to work, but, trust me, it does.

When you don’t think you can stand waiting any longer, the rubber band snaps, the ground smacks into you, the bee finally stings. Your parents are home. And there is a bright spot in the reunion, even if you don’t necessarily show how happy you are to see them. You see, the monster will start growling as soon as the door opens and the clatter of car keys in the dish ignites the firestorm that is Other People.

Retreat to do your homework. Come out of hiding for dinner. Now brace yourself.

Sometimes the pasta noodles will be different. And the sauce won’t smell like it usually does. And somewhere in the middle of their interrogation about your day and how it was and what you learned at school, they will notice that you haven’t touched your spaghetti.

“I made spaghetti because you like it,” your mom will say, and you won’t have any answer to that because she is right, you do usually like spaghetti. The problem is, the monster doesn’t like this plate of spaghetti. “I used the chickpea noodles. You don’t get enough protein, honey.”

You want to open your mouth and eat it, you really do. You know your mom made this especially for you. You know you’re being picky. You know you’re frustrating your dad. You know, you know, you know. But you can’t. You’ve got one paw over your mouth and the other clamping down around your arms and there’s nothing you can do but stare at your plate and be a disappointment.

“You need to eat three bites,” your dad will say. “It’s the only way to learn how to like it.”

The monster will bellow, but no one will hear it.

Then the cajoling will begin, and it will turn from “Please, just take one bite” to “You’re going to lose TV for a week if you don’t take a bite” and finally “Just eat the goddam food!”

And all the not being able to do The Thing will get to be too much to bear and you’ll want to scream. Sometimes you will, and your parents will stare in disbelief that you are their son. Sometimes you’ll cry, and they’ll change their tone—“Hey there, Buddy”—but you’re sure you know what they’re thinking.

What is wrong with you?

When that gut punch arrives, you will do the only thing that makes sense: throw the monster off. Thrash, kick, shriek, stomp, pound—break his grip on you. Because it’s his fault. It’s his fault that you’re like this. It will look like a tantrum to your parents, but they don’t know what you’ve had to do all day just to keep this thing happy. They don’t understand the measures you take to keep him from freaking out. They do not realize how tired you are. Muscle-bone-marrow tired. Brain and soul tired. Not Sure If You Can Keep Going tired.

BEDTIME

You’ll feel raw. Broken. Incapable of dragging yourself through bedtime. Unwilling to go to sleep only to face another day of caring for this big, hairy beast you’ve been given. But you have too, because you must be in bed by 8:53PM.

After your shower, as you sit curled over on the floor of the bathroom, wrapped in your striped green towel, letting the water droplets evaporate, your monster will curl up beside you. It may even nuzzle your ankles. And you’ll realize something. You feel safe. Your monster is formidable, volatile, and exacting—but only because he wants to protect you. To make you feel at home even when away from your favorite chair by the window. To shield you from the cruelty of other kids. To save you from foods with suspect textures. You’ll realize as he’s staring up at you with big sorrowful twin moons: he’s only trying to help.

You’ll go through the rest of bedtime feeling the warmth of his fur against your legs and the huff of his breath when he snuffles your hair. You have to brush teeth. (Toothpaste must be watermelon flavored. Mint is too spicy.) Get on pajamas. First shirt (left arm, right arm, head), then pants (left leg, right leg), then socks (left foot, right foot). Get your goodnight hugs from your parents. (They'll give you an extra long hug—but not too tight because they know you don't like that.) Close the blinds just enough that the streetlight doesn’t shine on your pillow. Make sure the comforter is tucked in tight. Read The Essential Words for the GRE until it’s time to turn off the light.

You’ll crawl under your covers, (make sure the corner of the sheet is tucked under your shoulder), and the monster will retreat under the bed. He’ll snore and you’ll ponder a while, and you’ll decide that even if it does feels like a lot sometimes, you’re ready to do this again tomorrow.