I used the skin cream and when I woke up the next day, my girls were amazed. "You're so . . . different. Your skin looks beautiful! You look like a teenager!"
Really? After one night I'd lost ten years?
"That Olay stuff can be dangerous," the Scribe said later. "It made you look younger, imagine what it could do to us."
Apparently my girls decided against stealing the regenerating cream of awesomeness. A few days passed, and I had to do some HEAVY editing on my upcoming books.
"Can you watch Doctor Jones for an hour?" I asked my girls.
The Hippie nodded, but she's only seven and she forgets about the kids--I needed the Scribe to help, too.
The Scribe slumped and I couldn't understand it. She's ten, doesn't that mean she's required to love babysitting? If the kid could stop imagining things--for two seconds--she'd be an AMAZING sitter!
"I'll pay you," I told her.
"Great, but it better be more than four quarters. You can't fool me with that kind of thing any more."
I edited and the children had a terrible time. That's when the Scribe started telling a ghost story again. Why does she tell scary stories EVERY TIME there's a live audience?
I stood at the top of the stairs and watched them for a moment. "A mother put some of the cream on her body," the Scribe said, "and each day she got younger and younger, until she became a baby and her own ten-year-old, responsible and beautiful daughter had to raise her.
"It was a good thing the mother had treated her nicely and always paid her good for babysitting because the mom was a baby now! And otherwise the daughter might have given her mommy-baby vegetables to eat at every meal!"
The Hippie gasped. "And never give her candy?"
"Never," the Scribe said and continued telling the story. Doctor Jones toddled off with the Zombie Elf. They were suddenly more interested in the piano than the story. Although the Scribe and Hippie didn't notice what the babies were doing, I figured they'd be okay for a bit while I edited.
So, I stopped listening after that because the Scribe is such a ham, it's just life. It wasn't until I'd almost finished working that I heard how quiet it was downstairs.
"Hello?" I asked.
"Don't say a word," the Scribe elbowed the Hippie.
"Ummm . . ." I walked down the stairs and into the TV room. There were two empty water bottles by the baby. The Scribe had wrapped Doctor Jones in a huge blanket so I only saw her two blue eyes and curly hair poking from the blanket burrito.
"Keep giving her the water," the Scribe said to the Hippie.
"What are you doing? The baby's sweating; she's so hot."
"Is she sweating, oh good she is." The Scribe nodded. "Good job, Hippie. We're almost there."
"That's it. You better tell me what's going on," I said.
"Well," the Hippie said as she tried giving the baby more water. "While the Scribe told a scary story, the baby . . . got into your skin cream."
The Scribe looked upset. "Hippie, I told you not to say anything. This is fine. I've got it covered."
"And," the Hippie ignored her sister and went on. "She put it all over herself. We're terrified, Mom. Don't let the Scribe watch us anymore!"
I turned to the Scribe. "Why is she wrapped in a blanket? And why are you making her drink water?"
"We . . . Fine, you wanna know . . . I figured if we gave her a bunch of water and made her hot, then she'd sweat it out."
I sat down by the baby. "It's just lotion. She's fine."
"Oh, how would it be if things were that simple?" the Scribe said. "Mom, she IS NOT fine. Didn't you hear what grandma said? That cream will keep you young. The baby is hard enough to take care of. Do you really want her to be a baby forever?!"
I hugged the baby and although she was wet, her skin smelled awfully nice. "The skin cream helps keep your skin young. It doesn't make you younger." It took awhile, but I finally explained things.
"Oh," the Scribe said. "I thought it was like magic medicine or something. Look at Grandma's face! We keep getting bigger and she never looks older."
"'Cause she's lucky. I wish that's how the skin cream really worked, though. Wouldn't it be cool if it could keep you young forever. You're all so much fun, I'd be putting it on you every day."
"Even the baby?" the Scribe asked.
"Yes," I smiled, not even caring about wrinkles, "even the baby."