Archive for the 'Everybody knows about Roo' Category

Vinaigrettes — Stickered, Sunken and Undone

Ren starts her nights in our bed, and we move her to her own after she is asleep.  That night I found her covered in STS-132 mission stickers.  I was so annoyed.  The following morning, I brought it up to her.

“Karenna?  Do you have any idea what happened to my Space Shuttle stickers?  The ones that were on the shelf above my bed? — Think really hard, baby, and don’t lie.”

“Momma.  I think I’ll get back to you on that one.”

“That’s not an answer,” I say, and before she can talk again I add, “And to say you don’t know is a lie.”

A long pause.

“Okay, see,  I really wanted to learn about the space shuttle …”

##

We’re at the Titanic exhibit at Foxwoods.  I like everything about it except that the children are handed boarding passes representing real people.

“Hello lass,” the ticket-taker says, looking at Ren’s pass.  “Hope you can swim.”

We get to the end and the children are encouraged to check the list of names against their pass to find out whether they made it or not.  It turns out that Ren did — she represents a Lebanese girl who single-handedly saved her little brother, the two of them emigrating to the United States in pursuit of religious freedom.  Fine.

Mare doesn’t make it.  And so of course she’s crying big girly tears and trying not to and I give Cute Husband my best, “FIX THIS” look and he comes back with,

“Can’t change history, Liz.  WHO WANTS TREATS??”

He buys little Titanic and iceberg ice cube trays marked for the making of ”gin-and-Titonics.”

###

“Okay, Karenna, so nice work on telling me what happened to the shuttle stickers.  WELL DONE.  You do owe me for them, though.  You don’t have any money, so you’ll have to do some kind of chore to pay me back.  Also, you may not start off in my bed tonight.  You’ll need to go to your own bed, no fuss.  If things go well, I will consider letting you back into my bed the following night.”

“Oh ‘tay Momma.  Hey, for my chore?  Can I use this cloth and wipe down the table?”

“No.”

“Can I pick you some flowers?”

“No.”

“Can I bring you coffee?”

“No.  You’ll probably clean the high chair.”

“Oh, that’s a really yucky job.”

“Right.”

###

Mare is in the kitchen, sweeping and singing “Man in the Mirror” at the top of her lungs.  Then she switches to “I’m too sexy.”

“WHERE THE HELL DID YOU LEARN THAT??” I ask.

“Shrek,” she says.  “The prince sings it.  What does it mean to be too sexy for your shirt?  Why does it hurt?”

###

Ballet.  I am chatting with a mother, wrestling Eden who wants-to-walk-doesn’t-want-to-walk-STOP-PESTERING-AND-HOLD-ME-MAMA-PUT-ME-DOWN.

“AAAAAAAAAYEEEEEEEEE!!!!”  It is a faint screech, and I’m the only one who hears it, but my spidey sense tingles.  I scoop up Eden and bolt in a full run toward the sound.  The locker room.

There are rows upon rows of small lockers, and a crowd has gathered, but no one can hear anything above the shriek.

“Ren?” I say.  “REN IS THAT YOU?”

“AAAAAAAAAAAYEEEES!”

“Stop screaming right now.”

She stops.

“Knock on the locker door.”

She knocks.  Six lockers over, bottom row, I pull the lever and she spills out.

“Thanks, Momma.  Good job not panicking.”

“Hey, you too, kid.  And listen, I feel like now might be a good time to have a conversation about locking yourself into things.”

###

On the drive home from work it occurs to me that I forgot to tell Moonbeam that Ren could not start in our bed tonight.  I am frustrated and annoyed at myself.  It is inconsistent.  I have done what Dr. Mogel warned me against — I have put a stumbling block before the blind.  I have given Ren a chance to get away with lying.  

“How did it go?” I ask Moonbeam.

“Great,” she says.  “They ate dinner, and I picked up the family room for you a little.  Oh — and Ren’s in her own bed?  She says she’s not allowed to sleep in yours?”

I am undone.

###

“Momma, I had a bad dream,” Ren is standing by my bedside, plaintive in the dark.  “Can I –?”

I pull her over the side, tuck the afghan around her.  She sleeps curled against my back.  In the morning, Cute Husband brings me my coffee and the baby as the light  pours in from the windows. 

“SISSY!!”  Eden says.  She pokes fingers in Ren’s eyes and giggles and despite herself, Ren giggles, too.

“Hey,” I say.  “Moonbeam told me that you told her you couldn’t sleep in my bed last night.”

A sleepy, dimpled grin.

“Ren.  That’s just great.  I’m really proud of you.”  I brush her hair behind her ear and her sleepy smile gets bigger and her eyes are open now.

“To tell the truth when you could get away with a lie?  — That’s called ‘character’ and ‘integrity.’  My little girl has both.  I am so proud.”

She grins,and her eyes fill, and she is undone.

###

Good Mother

“Hey, is it raining?”  Ren asks me.  I am talking to Mare, getting Eden into her car seat. It is an unseasonable May day – thick with heat and pollen.

“What?”

I look down and on Eden’s smiling face there is a puddle of foamy white.

“What is that?”  I ask Ren. 

“I don’t know!” she says.

“Don’t lie to me,” I say.

“I don’t know what it is, Momma!!” she says, her voice tinged with hurt.

“Do not lie to me, Karenna.”

“Okay, I spit on her.”

Damn – this is the stuff.  The bad part, the tender spot I ignore until she hits it and then I am crippled and unprepared.

 I don’t want to punish her for telling the truth, I don’t want to be a scary, out-of-control mother.  I want to land on her for spitting – SPITTING – on Baby Sissy and then having the nerve to brag about it.   

I don’t know what to do.

“Why would you do that to Baby Sissy?” I ask.  Ren has a giant shame button.  I only have to tap it.  Instantly, she pales and looks uncomfortable.  “Oh my goodness, Ren.  What a thing to do to a baby.”  I wipe the spit off.  Ren is shifting and looking away from me.

“Momma, I think that I spit on Eden because I was feeling grouchy,” she says,  and I think, Ah, good.  Yelling isn’t the goal, getting her to stop is. 

“I’m glad you’re telling me that, Ren.  It’s much better for you to tell me the truth.  Plus, if you are feeling grouchy, we can talk and I can help you.  But if you hurt Baby Sissy, I don’t want to help you.  I’ll be so angry at you nothing else will matter.”

(But I didn’t actually get angry.  –That’s okay, this worked, I don’t need to get angry.)

“Hey,” I say to her, looking right in her eyes.  “It’s okay to be grouchy.  But NEVER,” and here I do my super-intense-I-mean-it Look.  “EVER spit on Sister, okay?”

She nods, and I back the Loser Cruiser out.

Less than five minutes later Ren spits on her sister again.

“I forgot!” she says.  “MOMMA I FORGOT I WASN’T SUPPOSED TO.”

And I actually think for one split second, Maybe she did forget.  She’s only four.

And then I know that I am kidding myself, and I am allowing my fear of the kind of mother I don’t want to be to get in the way of being the mother Ren needs.

“Karenna I am so angry at you I can’t even speak to you,” I say.  “Because I will yell and say things I will be sorry for, so we’re just not going to talk to each other.”

“But –“

“IF YOU SPEAK AGAIN I WILL YELL SO LOUDLY YOU’LL CRY FOR A WEEK DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?”

She bursts into tears but doesn’t speak.

Eden chirps inquisitively.

And here I employ my most devious trick as a mother.  Both children believe Eden speaks in complex sentences only I understand.

“No, Eden,” I say.  “Sissy is not a mean person, I don’t think.  But yes, you’re right she was very mean to you just now.”

A wail from Ren and another chirp.

“I know baby,” I soothe, “it does seem like Sister doesn’t like you.  I’m so sorry, I don’t know why she acts like that.  Maybe tomorrow if you’re not too sad you can talk to her about it.”

Ren bawls in earnest and opens her mouth to speak.

“NOT A WORD,” I tell her.   

We get home and I bark at Ren to go to her room.  She drags her feet, so I grab her by the elbow and haul.  She bawls, and I hate this so much, this angry, domineering mother dragging a weeping, begging child up the stairs.  But if I don’t man up and get on this kid I know she will be a disaster and it will be my fault so in I go: mean-faced, so she doesn’t know I’m dying inside.

How dare you,” I hiss in her face.  “How dare you spit on my baby and lie to me about it.”

She howls and I go downstairs.  Mare is playing with Eden.

 “You were really scary,” she says.

“Good,” I say.  “That was the idea.”  Mare is silent.

“Am I scary right now?” I ask.

“No,” she says.  “You seem normal.”

“That’s important.  You need to know that I am in control of what I am doing.  I am not acting in anger, and I am not fulfilling an urge to hurt my child.”  I am speaking to myself as much as to her.   “Every parent gets mad at her kids,” I say, “that’s normal.  The challenge as a parent is to distinguish between our anger – which is about ourselves – and our job to discipline, which is about doing what is right for the kid.  Being nice wasn’t working.  When it gets to that point it is my job to come down hard and do what has to be done.”

 “If you had talked to me like that,” she says, “I’d be devastated.”

“You’re different people,” I answer. 

“Why is she like this?”

“She’s a certain kind of smart that I think has to be a little scary.  She knows a lot about people and how they work and she knows how to get what she wants.  I think that’s frightening when you’re four.  She wants to know that I’m bigger than she is, and this is how she finds out.” 

 I assemble a plate for Ren’s dinner – cereal and fruit, which is all she eats these days.  While she chews, weeping, I change the sheets on her bed, turn on the air conditioning, set the pillows back the way she likes them.

“I am putting Eden down,” I say, “and you can’t be in here with her because you are not nice to her.  You sit on the kitchen floor and say nothing.”

Ren sits on the floor through the softening of the afternoon light as her sister finishes homework and I start dinner for the rest of us. She cries silently, sometimes not-so-silently, and is ignored.  She is not allowed to get up to greet her father when he comes home,  or to help Sister make her book poster.  Ren sits like Scrooge observing her life as it plays out before her in the sticky-thick evening air, oblivious to her presence.

I make steak salads (“STEAK??” Ren sobs.  “I LOVE steak!”) and Cute Husband invites Mare to visit him in the Lair in the cool basement to eat together.

“Hey, SPONGE BOB IS ON!” Cute Husband shouts up to me.  “It’s a GREAT episode!”  It’s a perfect shot – Ren wails in her damp pile of despair on the kitchen floor.

The kitchen is clean, everything is put away, and I turn finally to the Doodle, with her matted hair, streaked cheeks, sweat-peppered lip.

I put her over my shoulder, she nuzzles, I carry her to the shower.  I scrub her scalp with the strawberry shampoo, clean her ears, her elbows, her neck.  She sits, docile, turning her chin into me like a timid cat asking for a rub.

I turn off the water, grab a towel.

“Karenna, do you know what trust is?”  I ask.

“Yes,” she says.  “When you trust someone, you trust them.  And then when you don’t, you don’t.”

“Can you tell me someone you trust?” I ask.

“You and Daddy,” she says. 

“And who is someone you don’t trust?”

“Jared.  He always takes my crayons at the art table.”

I towel her hair and then squeeze lotion into my hands.  I smear it onto her back and shoulders.

“I love you as much today as I did the day you were born,” I say, tracing the line of her spine in peach-fuzz flesh.  “I will love you that much every single day of your life, forever.”

She smiles.

“Today you lied to me.  Twice.  Your father tells me that he told you not to spit on your sister this weekend.  So you broke promises to us both, which means we can’t trust you.  And baby, I love lots of people.  But there are very few people that I trust with you and your sisters.  I won’t leave a child with someone who is hurting her, I don’t care who it is.”

“Momma, I promise I’ll stop!”

“No.  Baby, that’s what you need to know.  Your promise doesn’t work.  You broke your word to your father and me.  You lied to us.  We don’t trust you.”

A single tear drops down her cheek.

“I feel like a bad kid,” she whispers.

“That is called shame,” I say.  “It is the feeling you have when you have done something wrong, that you are sorry for, wish you could take back.  It’s just a feeling.  It’s the thing that helps you not do bad stuff.  It’s a gift.  Remember that you feel this way, and that it is your good heart telling you not to do the wrong thing.”

“Will you still be mad tomorrow?”

“No,” I smile.  “You get to start again tomorrow.  But you will have to work to make Daddy and me trust you again.  That one you have to earn.  And you’ll have to talk to Sister, too, and work it out with her.”

“How do I make you trust me?”

“By being a person who does not lie and does not break her promise and does not hurt her sister.  Saying it doesn’t count, you have to do it.”

I pull the fresh nightgown over her head, fluff her hair, carry her up to her room.

“You said we could have ice cream and movie night,” she whimpers.

“I think you know that’s not coming.” I rub her back.

“Does Mary get to?”

“Of course,” I feel fresh sobs starting in her chest. “Don’t wake Baby Sissy,” I say, dropping her gently into bed.  She pulls the blanket up, big tears spilling on to her pillow.

“I love you Karenna,” I tell her.  “You’re my baby and I’ll love you with my whole heart forever.”

She sniffles and shakes and I leave her there in the darkness of fresh sheets and clean body, and snoozing sister and love and shame and regret.

And I think, Today I was a good mother.

Vinaigrettes — So totally, thoroughly Doodled

Dr. Fob:  “Okay, so, Ren, tell me what happened.”

Ren:  (Deep breath)  “Otay, so …  I was dancing on a table.  On da art table.  And I was doing dis move — Sissy taught it to me — otay, and I put my arms up like dis …”

###

Ren:  “Momma?  — I have something to tell you.  I’ve been thinking about it.  I think it’s going to make you very angry.  And I am okay with that.”

DaMomma:  “Okay.  What is it?”

Ren:  “I can’t find my shoes.”

DaMomma:  “That’s fine.  That’s a lot better than it could have been.  Get in the car.”

###

Mare:  “Momma?  Ren wanted to climb the tree, so I used a rope, you know, to help her.  And …”

Ren: (in the distance) “AYEEEE!!! AAAAAAAAYEEEEEEEEEE!!!”

Mare:  “I think I tied her to the tree.”

DaMomma:  “That.  Is.  AAAAAAWESOME.”

###

Ren:  “So den, I moved my arms, and dat was when I knew!  I knew I was gonna fall!  And I thought, ‘OH NO WHAT ABOUT BABY SISSY!’”

DaMomma:  “Huh.  Where was Baby Sissy in all this?”

Ren:  “Well.  I didn’t want her to be sad if I fell Momma.”

DaMomma:  “Of course.”

Ren:  “So I turned, and, den  I moved my self around, like dis,  I — Muver, you stand over here it will work better dat way to show him.”

DaMomma:  “I don’t know that we need to go into that kind of detail.”

Dr. Fob:  “Ren, I want to kind of get to the part where you hurt your thumb.”

Ren:  “Yeah, dat part’s coming.  Momma, hold my leg, like dis –”

###

Ren:  “Okay, here’s a riddle.  The winner get dis.” (From behind her back, flashes a little colored pinwheel.)  “Da loser gets dis.” (Flashes identical little colored pinwheel that’s been run over a few times.)  “So here’s da question:  What’s my favorite kind of flowe –”

Cute Husband:  “The one Momma’s got in her hand.”

Ren:  “RIGHT! Daddy wins!”  (Hands him the pinwheel).

DaMomma:  “Fine, what’s it called?”  (Refusing the pinwheel flattened by the Crappy Honda ).

Cute Husband:  “I have no idea.”

DaMomma:  “Rhododendron.  HA.”

Cute Husband:  “So?  I said it first.”

DaMomma:  “You interrupted her to say it!”

Ren:  “She’s right, Daddy, you did interrupt.” Ren pauses, thoughtfully. “You still win, though.”

DaMomma:  “Wha–?”

Ren:  “Okay, fine, I’ll ask again. What’s da name of my favorite flow–”

DaMomma:  “RHODODENDRON!”

Ren:  “YES!  — Daddy still wins.”

###

Ren:  “And den!  And den, I turned, and I fell!  I fell toward the floor and I knew it was over and I couldn’t stop myself and I put out my hand!”

Dr. Fob:  “Okay, now this is important, Ren.  Did you bend your thumb?  Or did something fall on it?”

Ren:  “I twisted it, and then a pile of books fell on it.”

Dr. Fob:  “Let’s get an x-ray.”

Ren:  “YES!”

###

Dr. Fob:  “Okay, Ren, you’re fine.  You can go home.”

Ren (shocked):  “I?  I.  I!”

Dr. Fob:  “This is good news.  You wouldn’t want it to be broken.”

Ren:  “Oh.” (Sad little face.)

 

The Word According to Doodle

Little girl at the playground:  Hi!  What’s your name?

Ren:  In French, my name is Corinne.  Here?  In real?   In this land?  — It’s Karenna.

##

Miss Elm, the Ballet Teacher:  Hello, Ren!  Good to see you!  When are you coming to take class with me again?

Ren:  Well, actually I’m kind of over ballet.  I ran it by my mother and she said that was fine.

Miss Elm:  All right, then.

**

Mama Sunshine has been Ren’s teacher since she was 18 months old.   She has been her once-a-week caregiver for the past year.

Tonight, Ren tucked in next to her for their special story time, stroked her arm and said: “Mama Sunshine, I am really starting to get used to you.”

Sisters, A Story In Five Parts

The Doodle: A Glimpse

3:30 p.m.  Ren is hysterical.  We are driving to collect Mare from gymnastics.  Ren’s crown won’t stay on her head and one of her Snow White shoes is missing a buckle.  She’s shrieking.

“Baby,” I say, “I can get the crown to stay on your head, but not until we get there, okay?”  Another nerve-mangling shriek.  “Ren, Ren, REN.  SWEETHEART.  You can’t get what you want immediately, you just need to wait.”

“I know,” she weeps.  “I’m just sad.”

“Fine,” I say.  “Of course, it’s okay to be sad.”  But, oh God, could you be sad just a little more quietly?

4:00  p.m.   “We’re going to stop at Sugar Shack for cookies.  Then we’re going to go home and clean, clean, clean, and get supper made, okay, ma’girls?”

“Girl,” Mare says.

“No, not just you.  We’re all pitching in.”

“Well, Eden doesn’t speak English and Ren is asleep.”

“OH NO.”  Her head is slumped over in her seat, the crown hanging cockeyed.

“NO NO NO NO … Ren?  Can you hear me baby, can you hear me … CLEAR!!!”  I shake her, hard.  She screams awake.  She sobs the rest of the way home.  We are, in a word, screwed.

5:15 Still sobbing.

5:30  Not cleaning, still sobbing.

6:00  Hates dinner.

6:15 Eats Cheerios.

7:00 Brushes teeth, wakes the baby, says she’s sorry, asks to start in our bed.

8:00 Cute Husband and I are playing cards, drinking cold vodka, listening to jazz, talking about our days.  We hear a creak on the tilty-floored stairs. 

8:15  She is hiding behind the couch.  She thinks we can’t hear her large open-mouthed breathing.

8:16  “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit,” she sings. 

8:30  She’s tired of being ignored and creeps back up the stairs.

8:45  “MOMMMAAAA!!!”  she shouts. 

“STOPIT!”  I hiss from the door. “You know better than that.  You don’t shout for Momma unless it is an emergency and you certainly don’t make noise when the baby-is-sleeping-what-is-that-smell?”

“What smell?”

Right away, I guess it is the sleep aromatherapy spray Cute Husband put in my Christmas stocking.

“Did you spray it in your eyes?” I ask.  Her eyes are red.

“I didn’t spray it,” she says.

“Don’t lie to me, Karenna,” I say.

“I NOT LYING.  For REAL.  I did not spray it.”

“What’s the smell, then?”  She burrows her face in the pillow. 

“It’s the smell of it in the bottle, right here next to me.”

“Do not lie to me,” I say. 

“FOR REAL I DID NOT SPRAY IT.”

Then I see the bottle of Clinque something-something next to her.  (I have all kinds of makeup crap I don’t even know I own.  I’m not sure how I aquire it.  Free gifts I think.)

“Was it this?  Did you put this on yourself?”

“No!” she says.  I open the bottle and sniff.  No, that’s not it. 

But man, she sprayed something in here.  It is acrid and lemony.

I am sure I am asking the wrong question.  Maybe I should not even be asking a question.  What the hell should I be doing?

“Go to sleep,” I tell her.  “I don’t want to hear from you again.”

“I’m hungry,” she whispers into the pillow.

“You know the rule.”  She hops downstairs to get a piece of fruit and some water.  That is when I notice she is wearing a pink party dress, her sister’s black leggings, and swimsuit bottoms.

I straighten my blankets.

And find, in the corner, the wrapper to a citronella bug repellent wipe.

Ah.

“Enemy: 5 Clicks South. Nearest Starbucks is in Costa Malo”

It is true that bloggers don’t wear underpants.

I mean, we do. But when you’re home Working It at the computer, drinking coffee, the kids are in school and it is Freaking Arctic out … well, who can be bothered?

I did think to myself, as I grabbed the Schmoop-in-a-bucket and headed out to collect Ren from school that I should really consider getting dressed. After all, the last time I drove someone somewhere in my jammies, we were in a car accident. On a military base.

A Lance Corporal saluted my husband while snickering at my cute flannel night shirt covered in a trench coat. Aaaaawesome.

So when I threw on my snow boots and parka, popped a hat on the Schmoopy and headed out into the world I did actually think to myself, “Clothes would be much smarter.”

And then I shut the door.

I got Schmoop settled, hauled on the frozen driver’s side door, got it open, reached into my pocket and …

Holy shit.

Oh no.

Never. I want to say this: NEVER in 20 years of adult responsibility have I EVER locked myself out of a house or car.

This is my second time this year. I blame the baby.

As I mentioned, it was arctic. And the Loser Cruiser warms up nicely when it has the benefit of ignition, which it doesn’t without a key. So I covered the Schmoop in my coat. But not before digging through the pocket and finding …

Mama’s New iPhone.

Angels weep.

I set to work. A call to Sunbeam and Moonbeam — who’s got a spare to the Tilty-Floored Farmhouse? Moonbeam had one, but she’s gone back to Amherst. DAMN. Sunbeam gave hers to Thunderbolt. Thunderbolt is in Rhode Island. Cute Husband said he gave his to Thunderbolt, too … which means we have one unaccounted for, but whatever, I’ll sort that out later.

Sunbeam was forty minutes away but agreed to collect the Doodle from School. Good. I checked the Schmoop’s hands and cheeks — they were warm. I kept the door shut, so mother-freaking-careful not to keep it TOO shut, if you know what I mean.

A call to Happy Progressive Smiles. Just my luck, the Head of School herself answered the phone. In person. Herself.

“Yeah, so,” I said. “I am going to be just little late getting Ren …” She laughed.  -That great at-you-and-with-you kind of laugh that makes it all okay. She promised to feed Ren and keep her someplace warm until Sunbeam could get there. Then I shot an e-mail to the folks I was freelancing for that afternoon.

“Stuck in my driveway, locked out. Please look over the material I sent and tell me if it needs anything.”

Then I Googled locksmiths. As the search results came up with phone numbers, Momma’s Little Miracle helpfully offered to dial them for me.   The sixth one said he was fifteen minutes out, so that was great.

By then, Sunbeam and her twin sister Tango Foxtrot* had arrived with the Doodle. They piled into the frigid Loser Cruiser with me to wait for the locksmith.

I used Momma’s Little Miracle to memorialize the event:

Sunbeam and Tango Foxtrot were quickly bored, and given that their car was both warm and mobile, they got into it and sped away to hang out with their friends or whatever it is the kids are doing these days.

But it was okay, because the locksmith assured me he would be there any minute.

“Thank God you have the iPhone,” wrote back my client. “Download the fart ap for Ren, that will keep her amused for a while.”

I seriously debated doing that, but didn’t really want to introduce Ren to the idea there was anything for her in my iPhone. Thank God the Loser Cruiser is such a pit, you can find anything back there. I handed Ren her pink princess computer. She searched for the elements Cinderella needed for her perfectly pink tea party while I flung pygmies at volcanoes.

It had now been an hour since the locksmith said he was coming. I called him back, annoyed and very cold.

“Listen,” I said. “I am stuck in this car with an infant and a toddler and it’s very cold. If you’re not coming, just tell me and I will call the cops or something or go to a neighbors.”

“No,” he said. “I’m coming, I swear.”

Fine, all right, whatever. I hung up and decided to start a game of Spite and Malice.

“Who’d da toddler, Momma?” Ren asked, in that oh-so-innocent voice that foretold DAYS of endless reminding of the damage I had done to her fragile dignity.

“Oh, I just said that,” I said, “to make him come faster. If he knew you were a big girl, he might not come so fast.”

“Oh.”

Then: “Momma. When he sees me, he will know I’m a big girl. Not a toddler.”

“Of course,” I said, sensing danger.

“I look like a big girl.”

“You do, of course.”

“So he will know you lied.”

“Right,” I agreed furiously tapping my fingers to flip cards, refusing to make eye contact.

“You lied. And it will be very obvious that you did.”

“Sure will,” I agreed.

Ten minutes later, I was on my fifth card game, Ren had put away her computer and was badgering me incessantly about her status as a Most-Definitely-Not-a-Toddler.

“Because toddlers can’t talk the way I can. Toddlers, Momma? DON’T SKI. Ever seen a toddler ski? And toddlers don’t sit as nicely as I am sitting. Toddlers run all over da place and yell …”

I found it amazing that she was hammering so mercilessly on a single word uttered to a complete stranger on a cell phone but ignoring the fact that it was because of me that we were stuck in the frozen minivan in the first place.

“Hey, you know what let’s do?” I said, spying a birthday invitation in the pile of mail on the floor. “Let me call Julie’s mother and RSVP her birthday party, okay? How about that.” I tapped on the number on my little device of Love and Mercy. Voicemail.

Here is what my message sounded like:

“Hi, this is Liz Schwarzer calling –”

“Momma tell Julie’s mother I am not a toddler. Toddlers don’t go to big-girl birthday parties.”

“–to RSVP for Julie’s birthday. The tea party sounds just great, Ren is so excited.”

“Momma. I did not say I was excited. Don’t lie. DON’T LIE ABOUT ME ON THE PHONE ANY MORE MOMMA.”

“Ren. You are excited about Julie’s birthday, honey!!! HAHAHAHA.”

“LET ME TALK TO HER!”

“Ren, she’s not on the phon-” (sound of phone being bumped, hitting the floor) “oh, shit,” (sound of phone being batted about the floor by cold fingers that can no longer grip. Baby starts crying.)

Finally, I got my fingers around the phone.

“Hi, hahaha, sorry ..” (Oh my God what is Julie’s mother’s name?) “um, right, so we’ll be there. Thanksbye.”

I decided I’d rather be cold than sitting next to an irate toddle– excuse me, WOMAN — so I stepped out of the car to call the locksmith again, and beg him for mercy. He swore he was on his way. It had now been two hours since I called him, two and a half since I had locked myself out. I was very very cold.

I got back in the car to distinct evidence that Ren had been playing with my lipstick.

When I uploaded this picture, I had the answer to the question, "Where is the freaking Dora video?"

I have no idea why that put me over, but it did: I called the fire department. They arrived at about the same time as the locksmith, carrying the same exact tools. The locksmith charged me fifty dollars.

I got back in the house about three hours after I had left it, having spent that time sitting in my driveway contemplating the meaning of life, the brilliance of the iPhone, the utter stupidity of going out in winter without socks, no matter how heavy your boots are.

As I was pounding my screaming feet against the shower floor, I conducted a little After Action Report in my head: Eden had stayed toasty warm under my big coat, so no harm there. Ren was fine. Lipstick seemed like small potatoes. Julie’s mother (“Sandra?” “Cathy?”) was either going to just love me or just hate me from now on, and that seemed like pretty small potatoes, too.

I probably should have given up on the locksmith much sooner, called the fire department or gone to a neighbor’s.

Gee, I should really get to know the neighbors.

“When all is said and done,” I told Cute Husband later, “I’m really glad I didn’t forget the iPhone. For example, somwhere in Hour Two, I was looking up Starbucks locations all over the Commonwealth. I couldn’t get to any of them, of course, but at least I know where they are now.”

“That’s a great combat tool,” Cute Husband agreed. “Somewhere in Afghanistan, some Lance Corporal is programming the lieutenant’s iPhone to find insurgents and latte.”

“I feel like maybe you’re mocking me.”

“Never.”

“It’s not nice to mock.”

“Can’t let anything go, can ya, Ren?”

“Stop it. STOP MOCKING ME.”

“Oh, okay, Ren.”

“Whatever.”

*I have no idea why. I’ve just always wanted to say “Tango Foxtrot.” She’s probably going to kill me when she reads this.

Vinaigrettes — With Entirely Too Much Peenus

At ballet, Ren wants a treat. I never have cash, but today I do so I give her a buck and she hits the button for the gummies. The little silver coil spins and stops and the gummies are trapped at the end.

So of course I give her another dollar.

She pushes the button again and again the damned thing gets stuck, leaving two dangling at the end.

So of course I give her another dollar and –unbelievably– a third bag gets stuck.

This is why I don’t carry cash, people.

The receptionist comes over to help us out, smacking the side of the machine, banging it, even rocking it a little.

“Okay,” she says, “let me see if I can go get the key.”

Ren frowns, looks at the machine, and whacks the dispenser drawer with her fist.

Three gummy bags drop.

“YES!!” she shouts, “I AM A DIALOBICAL GENUIS!”

###

In the car on the way back from ballet …

“Peeeeenus! Peenuspeenuspeenuspeeeeeeeeenus!”

“Ren,” Mare says with a fabulous eye roll. “Please stop.”

“Maaaaaayer! We did what you wanted to do on the way there!”

###

The Halloween parade was this morning. During the Big Dance Mare suffered a costume malfunction — a safety pin in her diva costume was sticking her in unspeakable places.

“I was suffering, Momma,” she says woefully. “No child should suffer on Halloween.”

I don’t even crack a smile.

Then?

“Peenuspeenuspeeeeeenus!”

###

3 a.m. La Casa Loony Tunes. Eden is crying in the other room. She is the first of our children to sleep in her own bed.

No, I mean it … she is the first of our children to sleep in her own bed. The other two are tucked in beside me, snoring.

Eden cries again. I’m so freaking tired.

“Are you getting her?” Cute Husband asks. 3-freaking-a.m., girls.

“No,” I said, “I’m lying here enjoying the sunshine.”

Look, when you’re that clever at 3 a.m. someone needs to know about it.

###

It is our Halloween Zumba class. Miss No-Organs has cued up “Thriller” and is teaching us the zombie moves. “This, this, hands up,” she says. We follow, devotedly. “And then over here,” one arm around, “here,” another, “and then, well, this is Michael Jackson so …”

And then she does it. No delicate little pointing to her womanly parts, but a full on yank-and-thrust.

“DEAR GOD,” I said.

###

Ren, The Doodle, My Sweet Roodley

By this time four years ago they had wheeled us up to our room.

Ren, of all my deliveries, yours was the nicest. It started right on time, lasted only 45 minutes, you were born 15 minutes in and I was out of recovery about two hours after that.

And then you were tucked into my arms in our little nest on the postpartum floor. From our bed, we could see the city of Boston on that bright autumn morning that was your birthday. We sat together looking out that window and I watched as your little scrunched face aged before me, from minutes old, to hours, and then days, until it was time to go home.

By then, you’d made up your mind that you pretty much only wanted to be plastered to me all day every day. You stared out at people from the sling, leveling them with merciless unspoken criticism. If someone tried to hold you, you screeched. I don’t mean that you cried or fussed. I mean you screwed up your face, dropped your jaw to your chin and let out a yowl that made it impossible for anyone in the room to concentrate on anything but righting your situation.

The minute you were handed back to me you were silent. Staring.

Now you’re four and I can’t say you’ve changed much. You’ve honed your skills, and instead of a screech, you hang your head. It’s the Saddest Sad Face Anyone Has Ever Seen. Big, wounded blue eyes peer out from under your lashes, your mouth turns downward, and if the moment is right, you can even make a big tear drop down your cheek.

Then you get what you want, and you’re HAPPY!

I have to be careful who I let watch you. If they’re suckers, I’ll come home to a house trashed, a naked Doodle swinging from the chandelier, hyped up on the sugar diet you managed to convince your caretaker was standard Tuesday fare.

But it’s far worse when it goes the other way. The person who thinks she’s on to you can do a lot of damage. She’ll yell at you, or accuse you of lying, or think you’re manipulating when you’re trying to be nice. You’ll never tell her she broke your heart: you’ll just get quiet and compliant and then I’ll know something is wrong. Sometimes you’ll tell me what happened, but most times you won’t.

The way I’ll know — the way she’ll know — is that you’ll never want to see her again. Ever. In your whole life.

She’s dead to you.

I love that about you. But it does make work sometimes. You leave a litter of corpses for me to clean up, relationships to restore, playdates, activities and lessons to keep you loyal to, even if you insist on ignoring The Bad Person remorselessly.

Then when I think I’m on to you, you surprise me.

We’ve always celebrated your and Sister’s birthdays on the weekend between them. This year, Mare really wanted hers to be separate. You were sad that she didn’t want to celebrate with you any more.   Hers came first, and I was worried.

 You were a purple ball of happy. It was your favorite person’s birthday, and you were thrilled to be part of anything she’d let you be part of. You cheered each present, each treat, with a faceful of pride.

This morning we woke you with pancakes and confetti, a pile of sparkly purple cupcakes, and a beautiful new princess dress with matching pink peep-toe high heels. It was Mare who couldn’t stand it– muscling in on your presents and cake while I kept saying, “Stop, it’s Ren’s day … STOP!”

“Mare,” you finally said, exquisitely condescending. “I didn’t do this to you on your birthday.” Blink. Blink. — And then you handed her one of your presents to open.

You are my great-hearted girl of contradictions. Fierce, gentle, manipulative and sincere.

You’re still the little baby I spent those first blissful days with. You know the love of your family, it is what you prefer over all else. You’ve found ways to be out in the world, but you’ve never really left my side, and I know in some ways you never will.

Happy birthday, Karenna.  Thank you for being mine.

 

 

 

I got a bird that whistles
I got a bird that sings

 


but if I ain’t got Karenna,
Life don’t mean a thing

When I grow up, I want to be my kids

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.