If you don’t know what’s going on, click here to start at the beginning with the introductory post.
It’s Patty’s second day of existence and her first day of work, and she has twice as many children as she’s had hours of sleep. Of course, before she can even eat breakfast a car arrives to whisk her to work. Suddenly I get a notice informing me that THE HULK cannot be left alone without a babysitter – probably not accurate to Marvel’s canon, but I capitulate as ever. While Patty stumbles off to work, I am introduced to the children’s guardian for the day: Davy Linell.
It’s important to remember that until Patty returns from work I have no meaningful control over anyone in the Harper household. What I witness over the next few hours is a spiral of paranoia and decaying sanity straight out of The Shining.
Davy’s first act as guardian is to take Albert into the bathroom and begin feeding him, in what what is now a Harper family tradition.
Davy leaves Ablert on the floor of the bathroom to tend to Dana.
Noticing that nearly every child needs to use the bathroom, I buy a potty and place it awkwardly inside the tiny bathroom area, where it remains unused for the rest of the day.
It’s time for another feed, so Davy retrieves THE HULK from his crib, carries him out into the front yard and leaves him in the driveway.
I turn on the television in the hopes that the noise will wake the children, and thereby prompt Davy to change them.
The children eventually do wake up, but for reasons apparently located within the realm of quantum unpredictability.
Davy has somehow whipped the children who are still indoors into such a delirium of happiness that they’re all laughing. This includes the children in the other room who are, I should mention, still detained seemingly indefinitely in their cage-like cribs.
The children now seem to truly love Davy, having accepted him as their surrogate mother. The bad news: the children are psychopaths. The good news: Septomom spin-off?
Davy retrieves Callum from his crib and leaves him to feed in the driveway.
Davy paces aimlessly between the two rooms, frustrated with all of the crying children.
Ernie finally wakes after having lied unattended in his crib all morning.
Again Davy paces aimlessly between the two rooms, still frustrated with the crying children.
All of the children who are not still in their cribs flock like animals to the television, including the ones who were previously outdoors.
Davy takes Fionia from her crib and leaves her on the front lawn. He doesn’t feed her.
Davy now refuses to re-enter the house, which in his defence is basically a shoebox lined with screaming infants.
Davy stands at the front door talking to himself and stamping his feet, now eternally tormented by thoughts of crying babies.
Patty arrives home and relieves the babysitter, who collects $75 for his services before leaving this world forever.
Patty’s home after a long day of work, and she has her first pay in hand: $241. Victory at last!
Realist that I am, I must confront that this victory is somewhat dwarfed by my homecoming to a catatonic babysitter and children who have been allowed to spend all day confined to their cribs, or alternatively, roaming around the front yard like cattle.
At work, Patty was given a book to take home and study: “Living with Mutations.” It strikes me that Patty herself could write a companion work, “Living with Mutants,” and its sequel, “Dying with Mutants.” Anyway, if I can manage to pry her some free time from somewhere within the eternal plate-spinning act of parenthood, doing some studying today will give her a definite career boost.
Meanwhile, Patty cannot go inside! Like, physically! Sure! Okay! What? Apparently, because her army of children are hanging out in the fucking driveway somehow watching television through a wall of cribs, there isn’t enough physical space for her to make her way through the door.
After some time spent relentlessly shifting babies, Patty is finally able to actually enter her home. First things first, I set Patty to change and feed everyone, noting that she herself is in need of sleep, a meal, a shower and, desperately, a toilet. Well now my dear lady, you’re in luck – you have a choice of two! Point of order: one is a potty.
I should also mention that as she’s changing the babies Patty is leaving a wake of noxious green smoke clouds behind her. I don’t know if this is just the game’s exaggerated visual cue for needing to bathe or if Patty has brought home some sort of amorphous gas entity from the science labs intent on stealing all the kids’ sodium or something.
While I’m sitting there pondering the ethics of perhaps selling off one or two children should such a gas entity be interested, Patty, totally out of my or anyone’s control, spontaneously walks around the side of the house and passes out. There she lays in the grass for fifteen minutes while her children sit, totally unsupervised – some unfed, some unchanged and some in the driveway. It is only 6:46 P.M.
Having spent a few minutes literally dreaming of sobbing children, Patty carries herself back inside and approaches Brittney’s all-day baby cage, all the while cartoonish toxic smoke billows diffusely from the armpits of her grass-stained pants suit. Only then and there is Brittney finally changed after fifteen hours. After she’s finished getting all of the kids clean, a task that takes much longer than is implied by this sentence, I tell Patty to take a shower. On the way, she collapses again.
“Look,” I say to myself, exasperated, “she’s been working all day for minimal pay, she’s at least made an effort to look after her children and, true to her tenacious spirit, she has passed out only two times. Surely there must be something that I, the totally omnipotent master of her reality, can do.”
So like Jesus with fish and loaves of bread, from Patty’s minuscule pool of money I redesign the bedroom to properly fit all seven cribs. Unfortunately, when it comes to carpentry I’m the Antichrist, so the result is a bizarrely-misshapen house that could now be described as a “single-storey, one-bed, one-bath shipping container filled with fucking cribs.”
By now Patty has showered, and I have to make a classic Sophie’s Choice choice: does Patty get some sleep and restore her dangerously waning sanity or does she prevent her children from literally sleeping in their own shit? True, it’s 2:12 A.M. and Patty still hasn’t boned up for work tomorrow, but some kind of disarming techno-empathy compels me to intervene and aid these children no matter the cost. The cost is, as always, Patty’s consciousness.
When Patty gets up off the floor I ruefully decide to cut my losses and go to bed, leaving all seven of my children filthy, but, to my credit, only six of them hungry. I take comfort in the knowledge that I am creating, at most, only six future serial killers.
You can click here to go to Septomom Day 3: Supernanny Returns.