The circus sideshow

It's chilly in that mid-November in the mountains way. I can't see my breath, but my fingers are cold.

Jake has kicked off his blanket again. I've put his shoes on five times in an hour, so we've given up. When we realized it was actually chilly, and his socks came off for the fifth time, we stopped in a tourist shop and bought two Indian-print blankets for $5.99 each.

Being out with Becky again is simple. Easy. She didn't grump at me for forgetting to bring blankets as my husband would have. She just pointed to the cheesy-looking covers in the window of a shop and in we went.

Ten minutes later, we come out again with the throws, laughing so hard we can't catch our breath. My 3-year-old, Savannah, snatched a mini-flashlight off a low shelf while we were there and nonchalantly put it in the bag of newly-purchased blankets.

I put it back, admonishing her, "Hey! No stealing!"

Becky is dying, holding Lee's hand, trying to cover her giggles. "She's a crafty one! Look at her. You wouldn't have noticed if I hadn't seen her."

"But I want it!" Sav complains. "No stealing!" I say again, and Becky and Lee run outside, clutching their sides and giggle-snorting.

Becky has no kids. She has an electrician husband who is often out of work. He is Italian and cooks like Bobby Flay with darker skin and dimples, so you can't ever stay mad at him for long.

She and I are rambling through Gatlinburg on a Saturday night with all four of my rambunctious kids in tow. We've stopped at the Smoky Bear candy kitchen. They are hopped up on chocolate turtles and pecan bark. Lee, who is six, has traces of chocolate in the corners of his mouth. He's laughing, open-mouthed, at his little brother, Jake.

"Keep your blanket on!" he yell-laughs. "Mommy said you have to!"

We've done the circle down to Ripley's Aquarium and back. We've stopped in at the McDonald's with the "Restrooms are for paying customers ONLY," sign, and snuck the kids in to potty and run back out without buying anything. We are rebels.

Savannah is back in the "seat" she's had for most of this best-friends-reunited excursion. She folds herself into the basket underneath the double stroller, and watches the world going by from between my legs, chubby fingers curled over the edge, head popping up now and again. Ben would not have let her ride there. As we walk by, tourists exclaim over Tucker and Jake.

"Oh, look, twins!"

"That's at least the fifth one," Becky says. "How do you put up with this shit? I'd have knocked somebody out by now."

I laugh. "We're a circus sideshow, baby."

The same people spot Savannah, under the stroller. "Oh my gawd! There's another one!"

Becky and I dissolve into giggles again and walk faster.

We make the turn by Ripley's Believe It or Not. The little bar across the street has closed up their live music. People sit huddled around chipping picnic tables, drinking Coors Light out of the bottle and singing along to Seger's "Night Moves." Plastic Christmas lights wink in the darkness.

"I love this song," Becky says.

"Me, too," I say. We begin to sing aloud and Lee tugs at my hand, rolling his eyes, sticking a hand to his ears, the universal first-grade signal for "Shh! Stop embarrassing me, Mom!"

The sounds of the main drag are fading. We parked in a field, across from an old motel, off the beaten path. There are houses down there that people live in year round. Townies. There are dogs chained to rusting cars.

In the sudden silence, I feel oddly free. I start running, pushing the stroller at full speed. Sav is hanging onto the edge of the basket, howling in delight. Tucker starts cackling. Becky and Lee grab hands and sprint beside me. We are a half dozen crazies, sprinting down hill toward an abandoned field and our mom-van in the dark. I can see every star in the sky. I think there must be millions.

"Faster!" Lee shouts.

"See, you can run, Tanya!" Becky, who has been a runner for years, calls out to me. I'm heaving. I'm so out of shape I can barely breathe, but I don't stop. It's too fun.

Dogs wake up and start barking, their sharp woofs echoing around the field. Porch lights go on.

"We're waking up every dog in East Tennessee!" I yell.

"Who cares?" Becky yells back. Indeed. I don't, for once.

At the bottom of the hill, we start loading kids into the van. While Becky struggles with Tucker's car seat straps ("Amateur!" I taunt her), I realize Jake is missing a shoe.

"I'll go back and look for it," Becky offers. I fold the stroller flat, pulling out socks and blankets and candy boxes, as Becky wanders up the hill in her oversize "Gatlinburg - Heart of the Smokies," hoodie.

I find the shoe on the floor of the van. "You hid it, didn't you?" I ask Jake. He grins, and sucks his thumb.

"Becky," I call up to her. "We got it!" I'm waving the shoe in the air.

The kids take it up. "Becky, Becky, Miss Becky!" Lee yells.

"Benny! Beckny! We dot the schwoe!" Savannah screams.

The babies start crying. The dogs begin barking anew as Becky jogs back toward us in the darkness.

"Get in," I yell, revving the van. "Before somebody calls the cops!"

She jumps in, grabbing her seat belt, and pitching a sippy cup to Tucker over her shoulder.

"Go!" She's still laughing. The kids are yelling for candy. The van bumps along over the rough field. "Somebody is gonna call the cops," She laughs. "We're disturbing the peace!"

"Who cares?" I ask.

I don't.

- This story belongs to Tanya G. Brown. Please don't steal it.