We’re in the Loser Cruiser hauling to Marley’s horseback riding party. We’re late. I’ve chucked Mare a pair of jodphurs and boots and she is trying to squeeze into them around her dress with her seatbelt on.
“I can’t … I can’t …” — and here it comes. A Meltdown.
My shoulders are inching up toward my ears. Now Mare is sobbing.
“Mare,” I say, “it’s not a big deal. If you can’t do it now we’ll do it when we get there. Really, it’s not worth freaking out over.” But she is freaking out and now I am freaking out.
She’s high strung. She’s dramatic. I indulged her too much as a toddler and now she has no coping skills. She’s never going to be able to manage a corporation or a surgical team or an embassy and people won’t like her and she’ll be That Girl and it’s all my fault.
She’s crying and I am resisting the urge to shout at her to get her shit together. I’m pretty sure that would be wrong.
We’re at the barn. Mare’s dressed, she bails out of the Loser Cruiser and runs to the ring, where the kids are gathering for their rides. I turn my attention toward my middle child.
Her chopped hair is spewed out in a million directions. She has chocolate and glitter on her face. Interestingly, she has no shoes.
“You have no shoes,” I say.
She blinks.
I take her, barefoot, up to the ring and sit. And that’s pretty much where I plan to stay for a good long while. Marley rides, Mare rides, the other kids ride, and it’s fun to be back at the barn again.
The riding party comes to an end and the girls escort their horses back to the stable for untacking and grooming.
“What about me?” Renny asks, looking around the empty ring. She has sat patiently in my lap the entire time.
“You have no shoes,” I say. Her face crumples. I am a big fat jerk. She has sat here so nicely and now she is not getting a ride.
“Oh, put her on,” says the barn owner. “She can go for a ride barefoot, it doesn’t matter.”
“C’mon,” I tell Ren. We run toward the stable together, she bare-legged in the coarse winter grass, not even pausing over the little rocks.
The barn owner tells the instructor to bring a horse over and I tell Mare to get her boots off and pass them to Sister. Mare instantly complies, but the boots are tight she’s having trouble getting them off, and Ren’s waiting for her ride and … here it comes. The Meltdown.
She’s high strung. She’s dramatic. I indulged her too much as a toddler and now she has no coping skills. She’s never going to be able to manage a corporation or a surgical team or an embassy and people won’t like her and she’ll be That Girl and it’s all my fault …
“Mare, why are you freaking out???” I finally say. She stops mid-wail and looks at me with a deep exasperated sigh. She puts both hands on my shoulders and says,
“Momma. It’s what I do. I’m a person who freaks out.”
I stare stupidly.
She’s not me.
You freaking dumbass. She. Is not. YOU.
“Oh, okay,” I say.
She nods and goes back to hauling on the boots and wailing. She gets them both off, we ram them on her sister, and Doodley skips happily over to the horse and scampers up.
She hasn’t ridden all winter, and I have a moment’s panic wondering if she remembers how.
“TROT!!” she screeches — and Rumples is off like a super-charged slug with a lame hind end. And a bad hangover.
“Hey, Mare?” I say.
“Yeah, Momma?” she’s standing in bare feet, watching Ren happily bully her horse toward the ring.
“You’re a really neat person. I really like you.” She smiles at me.
“I’m gonna go untack,” she says. “And give Sterling a treat. And Wilbur, too. You know he’s in a stall today because he keeps wandering off to see the neighbors? — He’s really sad so I’m going to play with him a little.”
“Okay,” I say, and watch as she strides back to the barn, long and lean with piercing blue gaze and bare feet and wild blonde hair in her eyes. In that moment I am totally in love with the girl she is and the woman I know she will be.
Mare’s sleeping over at Marley’s. Renny is inconsolable without her, but we’ve compensated with a breakfast trip to Peach Cobbler. Ren’s in a booster, coloring in a tattered yellow Arthur coloring book. She is sipping milk and munching a bowl of strawberries while she waits for chocolate chip pancakes.
“Are you going to be a big sister???” sings the waitress in a high-pitched voice, as she sets a plate of pancakes down.
“I am!” Ren says. “I am also a little sister. Mare is my big sister, she’s not here, she’s at Marley’s she’s six.”
“WOW!” says the waitress. And then to me, “How old is she?”
“I’m three.” The waitress has not heard her and is still looking at me for an answer.
“How old are you, Ren?” I say.
“I am three,” she says. “And Eden is the little sister.”
“Is it a boy or girl?” the waitress asks me.
“A girl,” I say. Ren has narrowed her eyes.
“I said it’s a sister,” she says. The waitress turns to her.
“Are you gong to be a greeeeeat big sister?? What are you going to do when baby spits up? YUCKY, right??” she then leans over and tickles. Ren’s. Belly.
Ren takes a bite of pancake and turns away from the waitress, fixing her eyes out the window.
“Are you going to be Mom’s big helper??” sings the woman. “Are you a big girl, now??” Ren’s clear blue gaze is unwavering.
“She’s all zoned out,” the woman says to me.
“Yeah. Haha.” I say.
“Just not talking much today, huh???” the woman says. “Well, okay, BE GOOD!!” Her voice has taken on an additional serial-killer-baby-voice quality. Ren’s still staring out the window. “Be a good girl at the restaurant and take care of your sister!!” Still nothing.
“Funny,” the lady shrugs and walks away. As soon as she’s gone, Ren comes back to us, taking a bite of pancake and saying, “I wish Sister were here. It not da same without her.”
“It isn’t,” we agree. The lady comes back twice and both times Ren stares blankly out the window until she leaves, and then goes back to conversation as soon as the woman is gone.
I don’t think that woman ever knew that she’d made herself dead to a toddler.
It’s hard to think of anything on the internet that makes me happier than reading about Ren.
Your kids are more self-possessed at 6 and 3 than I am at 30.
You know they’re going to take over the world, right?
They’re more self-possesed than I am, good grief.
Now the big lingering question mark is the Third One.
Cute Husband says she is going to be the one to bring balance to the Force.
That’s awsome. My child might have honestly said ” NO TOUCH ME ” at the top of her little lungs… and Ren just turned away and gave the silent treatment. Niiiice!
THE POWER OF THREE!
Just, hopefully without the surfeit of unneccessary cleavage.
It’s so neat that Mare knows exactly who she is, even her “freaks out” part, and is totally okay and non-apologetic with it. Jess said it perfectly–they are more self-possessed now, than I am at 35! How do you DO that?! Please, please teach me!
Oh this post made my whole day.
I have a 21 month-old daughter who is very head strong, very precocious and has a decent vocabulary; my husband’s 76 year-old grandmother is visiting from Florida for most of this month. It has not been a great visit because the grandmother talks to my daughter like the waitress did to Ren.
Grandma doesn’t understand why my daughter either completely ignores her or shrieks and yells “stop i1″ and runs the other way when she tries to force a hug or kiss, or barks at her to come show her a toy she has, even when she’s playing happily with something completely different.
Anyway, this post made my day.
May you be blessed these final days!
Good for Mary! I was 27 before I figured out that my freak outs were not a personal character flaw, just part of who I am. If people have a problem with it they just have to deal. She’ll never have stress related illnesses because she doesn’t internalize the stress, she simply freaks out. Good Job for not making her be something she’s not.
Hee hee. Dead to a toddler. That’s *awesome*. I wonder if she’s just as oblivious to everyone in her life, or only kids. I’m guessing the former.
It’s your insight that I always appreciate.
“She’s NOT me.”
It’s so easy to forget that.
Thanks for the reminder.
You have awesome kids.
your kids freakin’ amaze me. can’t wait to have little ones myself. can only hope they’ll be half as brilliant as your little ones.
I agree with TEB.
Maybe the waitress was hard of hearing. Maybe?
I am in awe of Mary’s self awareness. She so rocks.
Ren made me nearly spit out my coffee with the invisible talk to the hand to the idiot waitress. My Ava is exactly the same way. I used to make excuses for her but she is who she is and doesn’t pretend to be any way else. Too often, we adults lose that ability at some point.
Eden is going to be just as unique and amazing as your other children. Of course. Because you will encourage her to be.
Elizabeth,
Lila is 2 and a half and when strangers baby talk to her she rolls her eyes and looks away…..I call it doing a “Renny”.
Jenn
This post brought me to tears… helping your children know who they are is, I think, one of the greatest things you can do for them. I must say I’m pretty emotional these days anyways:), as I am awaiting the birth of my second child (girl) who will also be born by c-section next Saturday… Since this is the first time I leave a message on a blog, I just thought I’d thank you for sharing such inspiring, funny slices of your life… I started reading you during my first mat leave (my son is 3 1/2) and I selfishly hope you’ll keep on blogging for a while – the inspiration/entertainment will be most welcome in the next coming weeks/months! Best of luck with everything!
I just wish I had words to tell people to back off from touching and poking little people.
They wouldn’t do it to an adult stranger so why is it suddenly OK to do it to a little stranger?
My Little Man (17m today) *hates* having his personal space invaded. We work together to enable nappy changes to happen and he is happy for rough and tumble play, and cuddles. But strangers? Ruffling his hair? Tickling his hand? The look on his face is pure disgust and it makes me cringe. I want to protect him from the invasion and never have the words.
So I just whisper in his ear, “I know how much you hated that. I understand.”
But I do wish I had words to tell people to back off. If he was a dog, people wouldn’t poke him for fear of his teeth. Maybe I should just train him to bite?!
Your kids are so amazing.
My oldest can’t stand it when people talk down to her either. She just gets this look on her face that I can’t even describe. My husband’s family does that to her all the time, and she can’t stand it. Her verbal skills are excellent, so the baby talk makes no sense to her.