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Raising children was a bit like being a cop.
You learned a great deal of skills you hoped you would never have a use for: how to take a hit from a stun-gun and roll with a punch, or how to sing the entire Anastasia soundtrack and do a perfect set of French braids. You saw a lot of stuff you really had hoped never to see in your life, and you often had to see it repeatedly. You had a lot of extremely uncomfortable conversations.
And, regularly with Erik, the girls liked to engage in all of the above.
The December after Anya's fifth birthday, the three of them were in the living room watching Ponyo for the seventeenth time that week. Erik was plaiting back Gabby's hair, which Charles apparently did much better--a fact Gabby was happy to remind him of, and constantly--and wishing that she would just let him cut it short.
“It's not right,” she complained again. “Pull tighter, it'll be ugly.”
Meanwhile, Anya was kicking her feet and lying on her stomach, directly in front of the television. Her hair was already done. Easy-natured as her Dad, she'd just let him “do whatever,” but he supposed that was just because she'd inherited the "gently wavy hair" gene. Because of her mutation, Gabby's hair was thick and stiff--more like spines than anything else--and she was painfully self-conscious. Erik was not looking forward to middle school. Already, Gabs was obsessed with all things Disney Princess, and Erik didn't imagine that whole shtick was helping.
He considered banning all media from the house, but obediently tugs the brush harder through her hair.
“I don't want to pull your hair, Gabs,” he said.
“Dad knows how to do it.”
“Dad's probably reading your mind to know when he's tugging too hard,” Erik said. “Your father isn't as good at that.”
It was almost time to take them off to kindergarten. Afternoon start, which means Erik gets to enjoy Ponyo and get them ready, while Charles gets to run off to a conference and talk to actual adults.
And, lucky for him, avoid the following question.
“Why can't I have super-powers?”
Erik tried not to let the brush slip, focusing on Gabby's hair.
“Anya, you've got all sorts of powers,” he said. “Everyone's different, that's all.” He concentrated on pulling the spines back into the neat braids Gabby demanded, and hoped Anya would go back to obsessing over animated sea creatures. It might have worked.
“But Anya doesn't have powers,” Gabby said, frowning up at him. “They said so at school.”
He considered asking who, but perhaps meting out justice on a room full of kindergarteners wouldn't win him much favor. Besides, the uncomfortable fact remained--once he would have opposed Anya's very presence in that classroom. They'd enrolled the girls in a small mutant-run grade school, and about three quarters of the class was mutant.
Anya had twisted to look at him, and he sighed.
There had to be a way to convince them it was best to wait for Charles to get home, before talking about this.