I didn’t know what she meant and asked, “Tell her about what?”
Dove patiently pointed to the finger with a small Band-Aid wrapped around a minor nip that had trimmed more into her fingernail (which desperately needed to be cut anyway) than it did into her finger. The Band-Aid was there solely by her request, so that her barely perceptible battle wound could elicit heaps of sympathy for the obviously horrible and tragic injury she had, in her mind, bravely endured and barely survived.
I still didn’t understand the question and asked, “What do you mean, what are you supposed to tell her about it?”
I have been in acquaintance with Crow long enough that it really should not have confused me what Dove was asking me. She wanted to know what bullshit lie she was supposed to rehearse and repeat to her egg donor about the small cut on her finger, because every bruise, cut, and mark she receives at Crow’s is accompanied by a lie that is to be delivered to us.
“Tell her the truth,” I told Dove. “I don’t lie and am not going to ask you to lie.”
At 6 years old, Dove has been taught by her beastly womb-for-rent that lying is the best policy, even when then there is no imaginable reason to lie. She has been instructed to lie to her father and to me so often, she was confused when no bullshit story had been given to her to parrot back to Crow, and she actually asked for a lie so she would know what to say.
Nothing speaks to Crow’s absolute and frightful failure as a parent like her fouling marks left on the children.
While the kids were getting dressed in the clothes they had worn from Crow’s (and which they immediately and hastily abandon once they get to our house to wear clothes that were not picked out by Crow or her equally tasteless parents), I saw Dove trying to put on a pair of socks that were clearly mismatched. One sock was toddler-sized, far too small for Dove’s feet, and the other was large enough for a teenager, far too big for Dove. When I asked her why her socks were two wildly different sizes (neither of which fit), she just shrugged and said that they were from Mama’s.
Gary and I stuffed the ridiculously mismatched socks into a plastic bag filled with other items the kids brought from Hickville and gave Dove a pair of matching socks that fit properly. It was yet another donation to the Clothes From Daddy’s That Are Never Returned Fund, along with other socks, underwear, sneakers, etc., but for god’s sake, we can’t even expect Crow to make sure the socks are within a few sizes of the correct size…or even the same size at all.
The weekend was one reminder after another of what a wretched parent Crow is (as if we need reminding). We had to trim fingernails that were practically wrapping over the children’s fingertips, and Bear sliced one of my toes open while we were playing when he accidentally kicked me with razor-sharp toenails that haven’t been trimmed in god knows how long. The kids are starved for attention when they come home and aching for kind words.
They are, ultimately, desperate for real parenting, something they do not and will never receive from Crow.