Are your kids his secret project and he’ll eventually haul them off to his father as his triumphant catch? Does he think they’re a way to the feral kids outside, to getting them rounded up, the city cleansed of its rats? Does he just want company? Is it as simple as that?
Whatever it is, your children are caught. This persistent boy wants to play, he wants kids to fill up his days and they’re forced to go along with it and all you can do is watch. Can’t read him. It’s rare for a child to be so closed off. You’re unnerved by his self-possession. His adult veneer. He likes everything just so; is used to rules; gets upset when your lot bicker among themselves; tells them his ears are hurting and wearily admonishes them to be quiet in a grown-up voice. You bristle with indignation as if a fellow parent has told them off. If he was on a sleepover at your house you’d be worried about what he’d be reporting back; your kids seem so big and naughty and energetic in comparison, slippery and cheeky, uncontained, rough. He’ll tell them when they’re getting too much, scold them to share, stop the fuss.
He comes from a tight house, you can tell; he’s spent his life being reined in, is relentlessly neat, his clothes never bear a mark. He likes discipline. Expects it in others. You can’t imagine any other parents liking him except his own; you’re so competitive about other kids, really wouldn’t need to hear how fabulous he is at everything; which you can see, infuriatingly, would be the case. You wonder about his true self, the veering off-course that exists in everyone, the possibility of an explosion underneath. What he would do if he worked your lot out? He’s a tattle-tale, you’re sure of that, it’s in his voice. The constant worry harangues you night after night.
Do not be envious of each other; and do not outbid each other; and do not hate each other.