Post by paintedmusic on Jan 18, 2008 2:19:15 GMT -5
Disclaimer: I disclaim all there is about Charmed to disclaim (and in English -- I don't own Charmed).
This is What I Know
This is what I’ve known since before I can remember:
My mommy’s name is Piper Halliwell. She’s a Charmed One, along with my two aunts; and she kills more demons every week than I even knew existed. She’s the best-est witch in the world and always knows the difference between right and wrong. She also makes the best-est chocolate chip cookies in the whole wide world.
I have an older brother, too. His name is Wyatt Halliwell—he has the same last name as Mommy and me. He’s twice blessed, which makes him more powerful than everyone in the world. He’s even more powerful than Mommy, even though she’s the most powerful witch in the world. I’m still a bit confused about how that’s possible, but I’ll understand someday. I hope.
I know some other stuff, too. I’m good at remembering; at least that’s what Mommy always tells me. My daddy’s name is Leo Wyatt. His last name is the same first name as Wyatt, my brother; but his last name is different than the rest of my family’s last name. Mommy said that’s because she kept her last name when they got married. I don’t really understand that, but I’ve got my own explanation. I think he’s got a different name because he doesn’t live with us. He lives up in Heaven with the other angels.
And I know my name; I knew it since forever… I think. I had to learn it for when I went to Nursery because my teacher would call my name, and I’d have to tell her I was there. I think she must have been blind if she had to hear me tell her I was there in order to know. But that doesn’t make sense because she always seems to see when I do something wrong, like spill the glue on the floor. Maybe the eyes in the back of her head don’t work unless I do something wrong.
But ever since then I knew my name. It’s Chris Halliwell—same last name as Mommy and Wyatt. I’m Chris Halliwell—nothing else. There’s nothing that goes along with it: No twice blessed, no Charmed One, no angel that lives in Heaven. I’m just plain old Chris Halliwell.
I’ve got a mommy who’s a super-witch, and daddy who’s a super-angel, and a brother who’s just plain super. And if you asked me who I am, I’d be able to answer you. I’m a boy with the most super family in the world. Ask anyone, they’d say it was true.
But that’s my family, not me. I know it sounds weird, but sometimes I don’t think I’m really here, you know? Like, maybe G-d accidentally skipped over me when he was deciding about my family. Maybe I’m just the little extra.
My teacher in Kindergarten told us that G-d is always watching over us. But my mommy told me I was born at nighttime—in the middle of the night when the clock as a twelve and two zeros on it. G-d can’t be awake all the time, can he? I think he fell asleep just before I was born, and he forgot to give me special stuff. It doesn’t make sense that I’m in such a special family without being special myself, so it must be that G-d fell asleep. It makes sense, doesn’t it?
I tried to explain my theory to Mommy, but I don’t think she really got it. She kept telling me that everyone in the family loved me and that I didn’t need to have so many powers to be a Halliwell. But I wasn’t talking about love; I was talking about fitting in. Sometimes Mommys can be pretty dumb, if you ask me.
Those aren’t the only things I know about, though. I’m the best-est rule-remember-er in the class. My teacher in Kindergarten even said so; you could even ask her yourself, and she’d tell you that she said it.
In class we can’t hit, kick, bite, spit, pinch, call people names, or step on people’s toes. But if you do it on accident, it’s not as bad… but you still gotta say you’re sorry ‘cuz that makes the hurt go away. And if you don’t say you’re sorry you gotta go sit on the bad-boy stool. That’s where you go when you don’t follow any of the rules.
There are other rules in Kindergarten; some of them are hard to remember, and I forget them once in a while. It’s hard to keep reminding myself that I can’t lick the glue off my fingers like I do with ice cream or that I need to always wash my hands after I go to the bathroom—with soap. And then dry them super good on a paper towel (not my shirt) so that I don’t get anything in the classroom wet.
Then there’s: No talking during storytime ‘else you gotta sit on the bad-boy stool until the story is over. You can’t color on the table—only on paper. And, of course, you gotta listen to the teacher.
Life’s full of rules, I’ve decided. And I don’t just mean at school—Mommy has a whole bunch of rules for when we’re home, too. And when we’re anywhere, actually. And we gotta remember all of them all the time—sometimes I forget, and she punishes me real bad. She doesn’t even yell. She just looks at me, and her eyes get all sad like the way only mommys know how to do. And I start crying after that—I hate it when she gets all sad at me. I’d rather her be mad instead. Really. It’s better that way, trust me.
But most of the time I remember most—or almost all—of them. Like I can’t run with scissors. We learned that one with my Kindergarten teacher, too. Isn’t that strange; why teach the same rule twice? But I’m always real careful not to run with scizzors in my hands so that I don’t get a time-out. I hate getting time-outs. They’re so boring.
There’s one I don’t really know how to do, even though I understand what it means. Mommy tells me all the time that I can’t use my powers by accident. I have to actually be meaning to use them, and then I’ve gotta use them super carefully so that nothing breaks.
But if I’m doing it not on purpose, how would I be able to control it? I can’t help it when I get so mad that my powers start making stuff happen even though I didn’t mean to do it. It’s not really my fault, is it? My Kindergarten teacher said an accident isn’t so bad as long as you say you’re sorry afterwards. But Mommy gets mad at me even if I do say sorry.
Then there’s the real big one that no one—not even the grown ups—seem to know how to do right: Don’t lie. It sounds real easy when Mommy says it, like I should be able to control myself. But she's lied before, so how can she tell me to stop lying? I thought Mommys were perfect—so if she can lie, why can’t I? Or maybe it’s one of those things that grown-ups can do and kids can’t—like driving a car.
But there was this once where Mommy told me that Daddy was going to come for my birthday. But I know she was lying because he didn’t come the whole day—I think he forgot. He didn’t even come all the way until two months later, and even then he forgot to bring a present for me. See? How come Mommy was allowed to lie?
I can’t wait to be all grown up. There are so many things I can’t wait to do: like lie, for one. It makes life easier, I think. But I can’t lie until I’m all big and stuff. I wonder if you just know when you’re big. Like, I know Mommy’s big; I think Wyatt’s almost big. He’s bigger than me, that’s for sure. But how can I be sure of when I'm big? How will I know? I guess I just will—like how Mommy knows when I snuck candy before dinner without even checking that there’s any candy missing.
I’ll also be allowed to sit in the kitchen when Mommy cooks or be able to talk to Mommy in all her conversations. Whenever she makes dinner, she makes me and Wyatt go to our rooms—and we haven’t even done anything wrong!—because she says we get in her way. When Aunty Phoebe and Aunty Paige are here, she doesn’t make them leave. I guess they don’t get in her way. How long will it be before I don’t get in her way either? I want to see what she does when she’s alone in the kitchen.
And then there are all those times where Mommy talks to other grown-ups in hushed voices, like they don’t want me to hear them. And no matter how hard I try, I can’t hear them. I once tried to watch her lips to see if I could figure out what she was saying. I got really good at it, too! The only problem was that she was speaking a language I didn’t know—gibberish, I think. Her lips kept going up and down, but I couldn’t see any English words coming from her mouth. So I know it must have been gibberish.
Yeah, and that, too—what about that? How come grown-ups never tell us kids anything? Why didn’t Mommy ever tell me she knew how to speak gibberish? I want her to teach me!
What’s the worst sentence in the whole history of the entire universe? I was thinking about that a bit after Mommy tucked me into bed a few nights ago. After a few minutes, I realized it wasn’t hard to find out. In fact, it was a pretty easy question to answer, if you ask me. Sure, there are a lot of pretty good answers—maybe even ones you might mistake for the absolute worst. But there’s really only one sentence that makes everyone pissy, no matter who it’s said to.
You’ll find out when you’re older.
How long before I’m older? Every time I ask, “older” is a different age. When I’m four, “older” means six. When I’m six, “older” means eleven. I’m not eleven yet, but if it’s anything like how it is now—I don’t want to know. Why can’t they just tell me now?
Once, on my birthday, Mommy asked me what the best part about being six years old is. I had to think about it for a little while because there’s a lot of stuff that I love to do. And I was never six years old before that day, so I didn’t really know much about being that age. But I figured it was pretty close to how it was when I was five, you know? How different could it be?
Finally, I decided that it wasn’t the extra scoops of ice cream because Wyatt got those, too; and he wasn’t six—he was eight. I cut out getting to sit in the booster seat in the shopping cart at the grocery store because I was already too big for that. I couldn’t ride in it anymore. I cried at first about that, but Mommy told me it meant I was getting bigger and bigger until my head would reach the ceiling. I think she was lying about that, though—although she called it joking. I don’t see a difference, but there must be one ‘cuz Mommy said there was.
Mommy hugged me when I told her what my favorite thing about being six years old was. I guess I gave her the right answer. No one even told me that it was a test, but I’m glad I got the question right. I hate getting stuff wrong. When she let go of me, there were tears in her eyes; and I thought she was sad. She told me she was crying because she was happy, but I still don’t understand. If she was happy, why didn’t she laugh instead of cry?
Besides, I didn’t say anything so big or important or anything like that. All I said was that my favorite thing about being six was that Mommy would read me a bedtime story every night—like the ones at storytimes. Except they were cooler because they were stories about Mommy and Aunty Phoebe and Aunt Paige and some lady I don’t know whose name also started like Mommy’s. I learned that letter in school—“P.” Mommy was real proud of me when I read it to her, and she even let me have a cookie before dinner.
But she used to tell Wyatt and me the coolest stories about dragons, demons, leprechauns, and nymphs. Whenever Aunty Phoebe would come for the night, she would tell us the story about the Woogy that once lived under the house. And she taught us a real fun rhyme that we got to sing every time she said the story. It even had our last in the rhyme!
But Mommy used to get mad at Aunty Phoebe for telling us the story. She would say that Aunty Phoebe was just scaring us for no reason. I don’t know why—I don’t think the story was scary. Well, maybe a little bit, but not much.
I know lots of rhymes, not just the one that Aunty Phoebe taught me. We learned one in school, and it went like this: “Sticks and stones can break my bones, but words will never hurt me.”
I don’t really get it. If words never hurt, how come we can’t call people names in school? It’s one of the rules that I remember—even as my Kindergarten teacher. She’ll tell you that it’s true.
Then there’s the one that we learned for Mother’s Day in school last year. “Roses are red, violets are blue, I love my mommy, and she loves me, too!”
I like that one a lot. Except I don’t know why the first part matters at all. I don’t see what it has to do with Mommy and me. But that’s okay because I cut that part out of my Mother’s Day card before I gave it to Mommy. My Kindergarten teacher got mad at me for using the scizzors without asking.
That’s another rule in school: We can’t use the scizzors unless a teacher is watching.
Once, when Daddy came down from Heaven to visit, he taught me a rhyme, too. It was really hard to remember ‘cuz it had lots of big words that were hard to sat. But he kept saying it over and over until I could remember it.
“If you use your powers for personal gain, consequences will come to cause you pain.”
I still don’t know what it means, but he was very serious when he said it. So I know it’s for something very important. Maybe next time he visits I’ll ask him what it means. But at least I know that the last word starts with the same letter that Mommy’s name starts with. And I figured that out all by myself.
Wyatt used to laugh at me ‘cuz I was littler than he was. He’s eight, and I’m only six. But that’s okay because in three years I’ll be nine—and then I’ll be older than he is. I can’t wait because then I can laugh at him for being littler.
Last week, he pushed me onto the floor just ‘cuz he could; but when Mommy yelled at him and made him say sorry, he did. I don’t think he meant it, though, because then he wouldn’t have pushed me in the first place.
Afterwards, he let me play with his action figures with him; and that was kind of fun. So maybe he didn’t mean to push me down. Maybe it was just an accident; otherwise, why would he let me play with him? I don’t know. Maybe when I get older, I’ll understand. I hope so. I can’t wait until I get older.
Even though he laughs at me and pushes me and stuff, he’s still nice to me some of the time. Like, he never lets anyone make fun of me unless its him—not even his friends are allowed. And he always sneaks me an extra cookie when he’s stealing one from the cookie jar.
Of course, then he’ll tattle on me for taking the cookies. Sometimes, Mommy doesn’t even know he’s lying, even though I tell her. There should be a magical power that all mommys should have that could help them know when their kids are lying. That way they could put them in time-out if they are lying.
Wait… but then I would be put in time-out for when I accidentally lost ten dollars and told Mommy that I saw it blow out the window. She didn’t believe me, though—I guess ‘cuz I’m not such a good liar.
Does it count as a lie if you get caught at it? Because then, techincally, you didn’t lie—because no one believed it. Right? I tried asking Mommy once, but she just told me not to lie. I already knew that. I wanted to know what happened if you did lie. Mommy really doesn’t seem to understand me much when I ask her questions.
This one time, when I was supposed to be sleeping, I thought about just a bunch of stuff. Like, let’s say Mommy’s name wasn’t what it was now? What if Aunty Phoebe was Aunty Paige and Aunty Paige was Aunty Phoebe? What if Wyatt really lived up in Heaven and Daddy lived down here with us? Would his name be changed to Halliwell since he was living with us? And would Wyatt’s last name change? Would he be called Wyatt Wyatt instead of Wyatt Halliwell?
That sounds sort of strange, you know?
And what if, one day, the teacher came in and said everyone could run with scizzors and kick and bite and scratch and call each other names? And what if we could do whatever we wanted and eat whatever we wanted? What if there were no rules in the whole world?
Everyone would be happy because everyone would be able to do everything in the world. But wouldn’t everyone also be sad because everyone else would be doing mean stuff?
I don’t think I’d be so happy. But maybe I would. Am I happy now? Well, I’m not sad. And sometimes I’m real happy—like when I get an extra treat for dessert or on my birthday when I get presents. But right now I’m not all that happy. I’m not sad. I’m not really much of anything right now. I just am.
It’s kind of hard being a six-year-old Halliwell with almost no powers. It’s kind of hard living in the shadow of Wyatt for my whole life (or six years, anyway). It’s kind of hard having to learn all these rules and answer all the questions and do everything right. People just don’t understand when you make a mistake—the think you did it on purpose, even if you didn’t. Because remembering rules is hard, and it’s not your fault if you don’t remember all of them right away… right?
What do I know, though? I’m just Chris Halliwell, right? No one special. No one important or super. No one that the world needs to stop for. I just stand on the sidelines and do what I’m told—remember what I’m taught, go where I’m guided—just the way I’m supposed to.
Because the one thing I know for sure, beyond a shadow of a doubt, in any sort of twisted universe, is that I’m Chris Halliwell… And, well, I just do what Chris Halliwell is supposed to do. That’s who I am; that’s what I need to do.
I don’t need to be twice blessed because I’m not Wyatt. I don’t need to be a Charmed One because I’m nto Mommy or Aunty Phoebe or Aunty Paige. I don’t need to live in Heaven and have a different last name than Mommy and Wyatt because I’m not Daddy. I can be me because I’m just Chris.
So, I guess what I’m trying to say is, thanks for falling asleep when I was born, G-d. I guess you knew what you were doing after all.
Author's Note: I know it's not my usual style. Too... happily-ever-after for me, but what can I say? I was in quite the solicitous, cheerful mood when I wrote it, I guess. Either that or I was drunk.
This is What I Know
This is what I’ve known since before I can remember:
My mommy’s name is Piper Halliwell. She’s a Charmed One, along with my two aunts; and she kills more demons every week than I even knew existed. She’s the best-est witch in the world and always knows the difference between right and wrong. She also makes the best-est chocolate chip cookies in the whole wide world.
I have an older brother, too. His name is Wyatt Halliwell—he has the same last name as Mommy and me. He’s twice blessed, which makes him more powerful than everyone in the world. He’s even more powerful than Mommy, even though she’s the most powerful witch in the world. I’m still a bit confused about how that’s possible, but I’ll understand someday. I hope.
I know some other stuff, too. I’m good at remembering; at least that’s what Mommy always tells me. My daddy’s name is Leo Wyatt. His last name is the same first name as Wyatt, my brother; but his last name is different than the rest of my family’s last name. Mommy said that’s because she kept her last name when they got married. I don’t really understand that, but I’ve got my own explanation. I think he’s got a different name because he doesn’t live with us. He lives up in Heaven with the other angels.
And I know my name; I knew it since forever… I think. I had to learn it for when I went to Nursery because my teacher would call my name, and I’d have to tell her I was there. I think she must have been blind if she had to hear me tell her I was there in order to know. But that doesn’t make sense because she always seems to see when I do something wrong, like spill the glue on the floor. Maybe the eyes in the back of her head don’t work unless I do something wrong.
But ever since then I knew my name. It’s Chris Halliwell—same last name as Mommy and Wyatt. I’m Chris Halliwell—nothing else. There’s nothing that goes along with it: No twice blessed, no Charmed One, no angel that lives in Heaven. I’m just plain old Chris Halliwell.
I’ve got a mommy who’s a super-witch, and daddy who’s a super-angel, and a brother who’s just plain super. And if you asked me who I am, I’d be able to answer you. I’m a boy with the most super family in the world. Ask anyone, they’d say it was true.
But that’s my family, not me. I know it sounds weird, but sometimes I don’t think I’m really here, you know? Like, maybe G-d accidentally skipped over me when he was deciding about my family. Maybe I’m just the little extra.
My teacher in Kindergarten told us that G-d is always watching over us. But my mommy told me I was born at nighttime—in the middle of the night when the clock as a twelve and two zeros on it. G-d can’t be awake all the time, can he? I think he fell asleep just before I was born, and he forgot to give me special stuff. It doesn’t make sense that I’m in such a special family without being special myself, so it must be that G-d fell asleep. It makes sense, doesn’t it?
I tried to explain my theory to Mommy, but I don’t think she really got it. She kept telling me that everyone in the family loved me and that I didn’t need to have so many powers to be a Halliwell. But I wasn’t talking about love; I was talking about fitting in. Sometimes Mommys can be pretty dumb, if you ask me.
Those aren’t the only things I know about, though. I’m the best-est rule-remember-er in the class. My teacher in Kindergarten even said so; you could even ask her yourself, and she’d tell you that she said it.
In class we can’t hit, kick, bite, spit, pinch, call people names, or step on people’s toes. But if you do it on accident, it’s not as bad… but you still gotta say you’re sorry ‘cuz that makes the hurt go away. And if you don’t say you’re sorry you gotta go sit on the bad-boy stool. That’s where you go when you don’t follow any of the rules.
There are other rules in Kindergarten; some of them are hard to remember, and I forget them once in a while. It’s hard to keep reminding myself that I can’t lick the glue off my fingers like I do with ice cream or that I need to always wash my hands after I go to the bathroom—with soap. And then dry them super good on a paper towel (not my shirt) so that I don’t get anything in the classroom wet.
Then there’s: No talking during storytime ‘else you gotta sit on the bad-boy stool until the story is over. You can’t color on the table—only on paper. And, of course, you gotta listen to the teacher.
Life’s full of rules, I’ve decided. And I don’t just mean at school—Mommy has a whole bunch of rules for when we’re home, too. And when we’re anywhere, actually. And we gotta remember all of them all the time—sometimes I forget, and she punishes me real bad. She doesn’t even yell. She just looks at me, and her eyes get all sad like the way only mommys know how to do. And I start crying after that—I hate it when she gets all sad at me. I’d rather her be mad instead. Really. It’s better that way, trust me.
But most of the time I remember most—or almost all—of them. Like I can’t run with scissors. We learned that one with my Kindergarten teacher, too. Isn’t that strange; why teach the same rule twice? But I’m always real careful not to run with scizzors in my hands so that I don’t get a time-out. I hate getting time-outs. They’re so boring.
There’s one I don’t really know how to do, even though I understand what it means. Mommy tells me all the time that I can’t use my powers by accident. I have to actually be meaning to use them, and then I’ve gotta use them super carefully so that nothing breaks.
But if I’m doing it not on purpose, how would I be able to control it? I can’t help it when I get so mad that my powers start making stuff happen even though I didn’t mean to do it. It’s not really my fault, is it? My Kindergarten teacher said an accident isn’t so bad as long as you say you’re sorry afterwards. But Mommy gets mad at me even if I do say sorry.
Then there’s the real big one that no one—not even the grown ups—seem to know how to do right: Don’t lie. It sounds real easy when Mommy says it, like I should be able to control myself. But she's lied before, so how can she tell me to stop lying? I thought Mommys were perfect—so if she can lie, why can’t I? Or maybe it’s one of those things that grown-ups can do and kids can’t—like driving a car.
But there was this once where Mommy told me that Daddy was going to come for my birthday. But I know she was lying because he didn’t come the whole day—I think he forgot. He didn’t even come all the way until two months later, and even then he forgot to bring a present for me. See? How come Mommy was allowed to lie?
I can’t wait to be all grown up. There are so many things I can’t wait to do: like lie, for one. It makes life easier, I think. But I can’t lie until I’m all big and stuff. I wonder if you just know when you’re big. Like, I know Mommy’s big; I think Wyatt’s almost big. He’s bigger than me, that’s for sure. But how can I be sure of when I'm big? How will I know? I guess I just will—like how Mommy knows when I snuck candy before dinner without even checking that there’s any candy missing.
I’ll also be allowed to sit in the kitchen when Mommy cooks or be able to talk to Mommy in all her conversations. Whenever she makes dinner, she makes me and Wyatt go to our rooms—and we haven’t even done anything wrong!—because she says we get in her way. When Aunty Phoebe and Aunty Paige are here, she doesn’t make them leave. I guess they don’t get in her way. How long will it be before I don’t get in her way either? I want to see what she does when she’s alone in the kitchen.
And then there are all those times where Mommy talks to other grown-ups in hushed voices, like they don’t want me to hear them. And no matter how hard I try, I can’t hear them. I once tried to watch her lips to see if I could figure out what she was saying. I got really good at it, too! The only problem was that she was speaking a language I didn’t know—gibberish, I think. Her lips kept going up and down, but I couldn’t see any English words coming from her mouth. So I know it must have been gibberish.
Yeah, and that, too—what about that? How come grown-ups never tell us kids anything? Why didn’t Mommy ever tell me she knew how to speak gibberish? I want her to teach me!
What’s the worst sentence in the whole history of the entire universe? I was thinking about that a bit after Mommy tucked me into bed a few nights ago. After a few minutes, I realized it wasn’t hard to find out. In fact, it was a pretty easy question to answer, if you ask me. Sure, there are a lot of pretty good answers—maybe even ones you might mistake for the absolute worst. But there’s really only one sentence that makes everyone pissy, no matter who it’s said to.
You’ll find out when you’re older.
How long before I’m older? Every time I ask, “older” is a different age. When I’m four, “older” means six. When I’m six, “older” means eleven. I’m not eleven yet, but if it’s anything like how it is now—I don’t want to know. Why can’t they just tell me now?
Once, on my birthday, Mommy asked me what the best part about being six years old is. I had to think about it for a little while because there’s a lot of stuff that I love to do. And I was never six years old before that day, so I didn’t really know much about being that age. But I figured it was pretty close to how it was when I was five, you know? How different could it be?
Finally, I decided that it wasn’t the extra scoops of ice cream because Wyatt got those, too; and he wasn’t six—he was eight. I cut out getting to sit in the booster seat in the shopping cart at the grocery store because I was already too big for that. I couldn’t ride in it anymore. I cried at first about that, but Mommy told me it meant I was getting bigger and bigger until my head would reach the ceiling. I think she was lying about that, though—although she called it joking. I don’t see a difference, but there must be one ‘cuz Mommy said there was.
Mommy hugged me when I told her what my favorite thing about being six years old was. I guess I gave her the right answer. No one even told me that it was a test, but I’m glad I got the question right. I hate getting stuff wrong. When she let go of me, there were tears in her eyes; and I thought she was sad. She told me she was crying because she was happy, but I still don’t understand. If she was happy, why didn’t she laugh instead of cry?
Besides, I didn’t say anything so big or important or anything like that. All I said was that my favorite thing about being six was that Mommy would read me a bedtime story every night—like the ones at storytimes. Except they were cooler because they were stories about Mommy and Aunty Phoebe and Aunt Paige and some lady I don’t know whose name also started like Mommy’s. I learned that letter in school—“P.” Mommy was real proud of me when I read it to her, and she even let me have a cookie before dinner.
But she used to tell Wyatt and me the coolest stories about dragons, demons, leprechauns, and nymphs. Whenever Aunty Phoebe would come for the night, she would tell us the story about the Woogy that once lived under the house. And she taught us a real fun rhyme that we got to sing every time she said the story. It even had our last in the rhyme!
But Mommy used to get mad at Aunty Phoebe for telling us the story. She would say that Aunty Phoebe was just scaring us for no reason. I don’t know why—I don’t think the story was scary. Well, maybe a little bit, but not much.
I know lots of rhymes, not just the one that Aunty Phoebe taught me. We learned one in school, and it went like this: “Sticks and stones can break my bones, but words will never hurt me.”
I don’t really get it. If words never hurt, how come we can’t call people names in school? It’s one of the rules that I remember—even as my Kindergarten teacher. She’ll tell you that it’s true.
Then there’s the one that we learned for Mother’s Day in school last year. “Roses are red, violets are blue, I love my mommy, and she loves me, too!”
I like that one a lot. Except I don’t know why the first part matters at all. I don’t see what it has to do with Mommy and me. But that’s okay because I cut that part out of my Mother’s Day card before I gave it to Mommy. My Kindergarten teacher got mad at me for using the scizzors without asking.
That’s another rule in school: We can’t use the scizzors unless a teacher is watching.
Once, when Daddy came down from Heaven to visit, he taught me a rhyme, too. It was really hard to remember ‘cuz it had lots of big words that were hard to sat. But he kept saying it over and over until I could remember it.
“If you use your powers for personal gain, consequences will come to cause you pain.”
I still don’t know what it means, but he was very serious when he said it. So I know it’s for something very important. Maybe next time he visits I’ll ask him what it means. But at least I know that the last word starts with the same letter that Mommy’s name starts with. And I figured that out all by myself.
Wyatt used to laugh at me ‘cuz I was littler than he was. He’s eight, and I’m only six. But that’s okay because in three years I’ll be nine—and then I’ll be older than he is. I can’t wait because then I can laugh at him for being littler.
Last week, he pushed me onto the floor just ‘cuz he could; but when Mommy yelled at him and made him say sorry, he did. I don’t think he meant it, though, because then he wouldn’t have pushed me in the first place.
Afterwards, he let me play with his action figures with him; and that was kind of fun. So maybe he didn’t mean to push me down. Maybe it was just an accident; otherwise, why would he let me play with him? I don’t know. Maybe when I get older, I’ll understand. I hope so. I can’t wait until I get older.
Even though he laughs at me and pushes me and stuff, he’s still nice to me some of the time. Like, he never lets anyone make fun of me unless its him—not even his friends are allowed. And he always sneaks me an extra cookie when he’s stealing one from the cookie jar.
Of course, then he’ll tattle on me for taking the cookies. Sometimes, Mommy doesn’t even know he’s lying, even though I tell her. There should be a magical power that all mommys should have that could help them know when their kids are lying. That way they could put them in time-out if they are lying.
Wait… but then I would be put in time-out for when I accidentally lost ten dollars and told Mommy that I saw it blow out the window. She didn’t believe me, though—I guess ‘cuz I’m not such a good liar.
Does it count as a lie if you get caught at it? Because then, techincally, you didn’t lie—because no one believed it. Right? I tried asking Mommy once, but she just told me not to lie. I already knew that. I wanted to know what happened if you did lie. Mommy really doesn’t seem to understand me much when I ask her questions.
This one time, when I was supposed to be sleeping, I thought about just a bunch of stuff. Like, let’s say Mommy’s name wasn’t what it was now? What if Aunty Phoebe was Aunty Paige and Aunty Paige was Aunty Phoebe? What if Wyatt really lived up in Heaven and Daddy lived down here with us? Would his name be changed to Halliwell since he was living with us? And would Wyatt’s last name change? Would he be called Wyatt Wyatt instead of Wyatt Halliwell?
That sounds sort of strange, you know?
And what if, one day, the teacher came in and said everyone could run with scizzors and kick and bite and scratch and call each other names? And what if we could do whatever we wanted and eat whatever we wanted? What if there were no rules in the whole world?
Everyone would be happy because everyone would be able to do everything in the world. But wouldn’t everyone also be sad because everyone else would be doing mean stuff?
I don’t think I’d be so happy. But maybe I would. Am I happy now? Well, I’m not sad. And sometimes I’m real happy—like when I get an extra treat for dessert or on my birthday when I get presents. But right now I’m not all that happy. I’m not sad. I’m not really much of anything right now. I just am.
It’s kind of hard being a six-year-old Halliwell with almost no powers. It’s kind of hard living in the shadow of Wyatt for my whole life (or six years, anyway). It’s kind of hard having to learn all these rules and answer all the questions and do everything right. People just don’t understand when you make a mistake—the think you did it on purpose, even if you didn’t. Because remembering rules is hard, and it’s not your fault if you don’t remember all of them right away… right?
What do I know, though? I’m just Chris Halliwell, right? No one special. No one important or super. No one that the world needs to stop for. I just stand on the sidelines and do what I’m told—remember what I’m taught, go where I’m guided—just the way I’m supposed to.
Because the one thing I know for sure, beyond a shadow of a doubt, in any sort of twisted universe, is that I’m Chris Halliwell… And, well, I just do what Chris Halliwell is supposed to do. That’s who I am; that’s what I need to do.
I don’t need to be twice blessed because I’m not Wyatt. I don’t need to be a Charmed One because I’m nto Mommy or Aunty Phoebe or Aunty Paige. I don’t need to live in Heaven and have a different last name than Mommy and Wyatt because I’m not Daddy. I can be me because I’m just Chris.
So, I guess what I’m trying to say is, thanks for falling asleep when I was born, G-d. I guess you knew what you were doing after all.
Author's Note: I know it's not my usual style. Too... happily-ever-after for me, but what can I say? I was in quite the solicitous, cheerful mood when I wrote it, I guess. Either that or I was drunk.
