Archive for the 'Everybody knows about Roo' Category
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.
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.
Cute Husband’s family decided to celebrate this Christmas with a pre-holiday trip to Loon Mountain, New Hampshire. After a breakfast of pancakes and saussage, we got the kids ready for their first ski lesson.
This involved much gear. And I may have been a little over-zealous in the dressing of our littlest.
She couldn't move. So we all just laughed at her for a while.
The gang. (We were still laughing at Eden. And I kind of feel bad about it. But. Well, look at her.)
Not too sure about the boots.
As we got ready for the lesson, Ren repeated many times that she was scared she might fall. “Oh, of course you’ll fall,” I said. “Everybody falls. But you don’t have to do anything you don’t like.”
Not so sure about the helmet.
And then all four kids were geared up and ready to go:
Do they look totally psyched or what?
We met Mr. Paul, the ski instructor:
Not so sure of anything. Think I'll hold Dad's hand.
So freaking Norman Rockwell.
The kids started in the obstacle course. They practiced moving themselves along in their skis.
At an airport, it's called a "people mover." On the kiddie slope, it's a "carpet." Ren likes it.
One by one, the kids crapped out and went for the Lodge. Until only two remained: Six year-old veteran skiier cousin Ben … and Ren.
They left the obstacle course and made their way to the kiddie slope, riding the carpet up to the top and then skiing down. Ren fell a fair amount. But at the conclusion of the first hour, she was successfully skiing solo.
As in by herself.
Down a mountain.
“I have to tell you,” Paul said leaning conversationally against his ski. “She’s very good, she likes speed. I’m spending most of my time now just trying to cut her off so I can slow her down. If you tell a kid to slow down, they don’t, so I just kind of get in front of them a little. In fact, I’ve only had a few skiiers like her and they all turned out to be racers –”
“Excuse me, Paul,” I said. “But is that Ren?” I pointed to a small determined character standing straight-backed and impatient on the carpet. She was about halfway up the slope.
“JEEZE!” he said with a start, signalling the carpet operator to stop it. He skadooed up the side of the mountain toward her while Ren looked around in annoyance that she was stopped. He got next to her and they went around again a few more times before it was time to go.
I was doing a good job of Minding My Business and Staying Out of It, which unfortunately meant staying in a position not to take great pictures. So most of my shots don’t really capture that tiny little person barrelling down the mountain, hands up, with a grin that could only properly be described as “shit-eating.”
I bought her ski mittens and goggles to celebrate. I think she liked them.
The Unabomber. Gearing up for the big Mike Tyson fight.
Visions of high rates of speed danced in her head.
This is the question I am asking myself.
That, and “Why is my pillow sopping wet?”
The title of this post was supposed to be,
“The Best Darn Day of Ren’s Whole Darn Life” — and it was to be accompanied by pictures.
Our family took a little trip to Loon Mountain this weekend, which ended up being more of a blogging break than I intended because in the packing frenzy I managed to leave my laptop behind. For Cute Husband, this was sort of the equivalent of my accidentally forgetting to bring along my hooker. Her pimp. And their crack dealer.
He was really pleased.
The packing frenzy was such a freaking frenzy, in fact, that I hired Sunbeam’s sister (Code Name: Thunderbolt) to help me corral the girls and get all that crap in the Looser Cruiser. The resultant tornado was so destructive that as I was writing the check I asked Thunderbolt if I threw in some extra whether she would clean the house while we were gone.
Ever done that? No? MY GOD try it.
When we opened the door after our long weekend and the house smelled luciously of Murphy’s Oil and spent vaccum engine I pretty much wanted to lie down right there and expire because I had reached the pinnacle of existance.
But wait, back up. Before we opened that door we had to walk up the walkway. There were fifteen inches of snow making that more than a little challenging. That was nothing compared to the driveway whose pillowy visage immediately suggested to me that the man we had hired to plow it forgot himself and is selling slushies on a beach in Key West.
We had gotten to the house after a five hour drive through blizard conditions. So I did what any rational-minded lunatic would do after suffering five hour’s close confinement with three Christmas-hyper children: I stalked plows.
Where did I stalk them? — Hold on, ’cause this is clever. I stalked them at the gas station. I stood there with a checkbook and said, “Hey … want to get me out of a spot?”
Third guy said yes and he didn’t even take my money.
Okay, but before we got to that point we had dropped of Cute Husband at The Office, where he had left his car Friday night. The Office plow man clearly also was a fan of slushies as the Crappy Honda was stranded on a veritable ice floe.
“Don’t sweat it,” I said, as we pulled up. “Let’s go home and I’ll drive you to work in the morning.”
“I’ll just be a minute,” he said, slamming the car door and making his way across the tundra that was that parking lot.
About five minutes later, a terrific roar and screeching of tires and the Crappy Honda was barreling toward me, shedding ice like the Space Shuttle during launch. It was briefly airborne, and then he landed, hard, on the street, with a wave and a “See you at home!”
I got home before he did, of course, because — hey– four wheel drive. So we made it home to the house Thunderbolt had made so sweet. I found the laptop waiting for me and turned it on just so I could be comforted by its warm glow.
That was when I couldn’t find the freaking battery charger. Not for the computer, but for the camera.
Because that’s where the story of The Best Darn Day of Ren’s Whole Life waits for me to upload it so I can tell you all about it.
For now, just one image, saved to my phone:
As for my pillow? — It’s wet because Ren got here before I did and she has a new affinity for cooling cloths on her brow.
Dinner: perfect. This year I had the butcher cut up the turkey. From the scraps, I made stock a day in advance. The breast, legs, thighs, I brined overnight in salt and citrus and bay leaf.
I roasted it Thanksgiving morning with lemon, olive oil, salt and pepper, with veggies in the pan. I made gravy with pan drippings and stock. The result — succulent, with a wild gaminess.
I selected a luxury of mushrooms at Whole Foods, roasted them, added them to toasted cubes of artisan bread, onions, sage, celery. More stock, turkey fat, fresh herbs. Beaten egg. Wrapped tightly in foil and baked until soft and buttery and rich.
Fluffy russet potatoes pressed through the ricer, butter, cream. Butternut squash with maple and salt and pepper. Green beans, crisp piles of them with garlic and salt and pepper and lemon.
Cranberry sauce that Sunbeam says tastes like Thanksgiving all by itself: rosemary, ginger, carmelized onion.
Set out on the table on the fine china. Light from Ducky’s mother’s candle sticks. Purple, cream and crimson blossoms in silver cups.
Shining faces at my table: my daughters, my husband, Aunt Emily and her beautiful boys. It was the best Thanksgiving meal ever, they said, and I grinned, pleased.
We ate and drank cider and wine and told the old stories and some new ones.
Bounty.
###
A Karoke machine, a belated joint birthday gift to Mare and Ren from Luke and Matt. It came with two microphones.
They spent the day after Thanksgiving lying around in pajamas eating pie and singing Hannah Montana duets. I know there are great places to go in the world, and some day would like my girls to see them. But I don’t know that there’s any greater happiness than that.
###
Cousin Emma has come for Thanksgiving Sunday. She is six months older than Ren. I set out some Foam Crap They Can Glue Together For a Good Solid 20 Minutes.
“I don’t mind if anyone wants to copy me,” Mare says. Emma nods in happy older-cousin adoration. They settle in with glue sticks for a good long chat.
“… Snow Queens are better than princesses,” we overhear Mare saying later, “not like the Fairies of Spring. Emma, you can be the Starlight Fairy, if you want. And help us bring back the Happiness of Blossoms.”
“Okay!!” says Emma.
“Holy shit,” says Cute Husband.
###
This was supposed to be an awesome Christmas card shot
###
A new routine: at night, before bed, I check in with my middle girl. The one with the fierce nature and gentle heart who sometimes gets lost between her sisters The Star and The Baby.
“How are you, Ren?” I ask. “How are you feeling? Anything you want to talk to me about?”
“Well, Momma,” she begins, and I know it’s going to be a long one. “I was sad today because Mare and Emma didn’t do what I wanted.”
“Yes,” I say. “I noticed that. It was hard because Emma is your age, but a guest, and Mare was paying her lots of attention.”
“Yeah,” Ren said. “And then? When I cried and ran away? They didn’t even follow me!”
“Oh,” I say, “no one follows you when you run away crying. That’s just the rule.”
“Seriously?” Shock.
“Yeah.”
“For real?”
“Yep.”
“Wow. Maybe I better stay and talk to them, then.”
“Yeah, that might be better,” I say. “And you can always ask me to help if you are having trouble understanding each other.”
“Wow. Okay, yeah, let’s try that.”
###
“Momma, I know I am a good puncher,” Ren says in our nightly chat.
“You are,” I agree.
“And if a bad guy came near Eden I would kill him,” she continues matter-of-factly. “I would punch him until he was dead.”
“Right,” I say.
“But that’s not a good thing for me to do at school, right?”
“Right,” I agree.
“Seamus was annoying me today and I knew I could not punch him, but he wouldn’t stop. He got up near me and I said, ‘STOP!’ and he wouldn’t so you know what I did?”
“Um. What?”
“I said:” she takes a deep breath, puts her face close to mine, and screams.
Then she settles back against the pillows.
“How did that work?” I ask, catching my breath.
“Oh, it was awesome, he totally went away.”
###
I ate pie. I tackled it with a fork. At night, it called to me and I wandered down and had at, ending with a glass of cold milk before padding back to bed and tucking in beside Eden. She nursed hungily and I stroked her back and marveled at full bellies and the scent of baby shampoo.
###
The worst part of this bizarrely horrible week was Ren, curled over in her car seat, gripping her knees, screaming, “Please don’t be hurt Edeny PLEASE DON’T BE HURT.”
It was an eerie window into the core of a person who is only four, but wholly human, vulnerable, aware.
There was nothing I could do to spare her that ride to Urgent Care, soaked in regret, begging her Creator to do anything to her but spare her the experience of having harmed a baby.
I had been doing dishes in the kitchen when I heard the sound — the sick “crack” that can only be a head hitting the floor. And then wails. Baby wails.
”Tellmewhathappenedtellmewhathappened …” I blared, scooping Eden up from under Ducky’s pink settee.
”She fell off the couch,” Ren whimpered.
”WHY DID YOU PUT HER ON THE COUCH?” — When I had left them, Eden was on the play mat. I ran my hand over her head, studied her howling face.
”What happened?” I managed. “And I mean be specific: tell me how she got from the mat to falling off the couch.”
And here, Ren redeemed herself. None of the usual coy looks or whispered, sly apologies. No lies. She demonstrated for me exactly how she did it, picking Eden up off the mat, setting her down on the soft pink pillow.
”I thought she would want to play naptime,” Ren said miserably. “I went to get a blanket and when I turned back she was like dis,” Ren climbed up on the settee, head aimed at the floor, and lowered herself toward the hardwood.
Oh, shit. Okay.
”I thought she’d like it,” she whimpered.
Eden had stopped crying and looked chipper.
”She’s okay, Ren,” I said. Unbelievably, Eden looked completely fine.
”Come over here and tell her you’re sorry.”
Ren slid miserably toward us and put her hand on Eden’s. I rubbed both my babies’ backs and felt the adrenaline settle. I could hear the kitchen faucet still running.
”It’s okay,” I repeated.
And that was when Eden vomited. A fountain of apples and oatmeal. Down herself, down Ren and me.
She vomited three more times in the next ten minutes.
At Urgent Care, Ren wouldn’t get out of the car. She huddled on the floor, screaming and grabbing at her hair.
I picked up the ball of her, perched it on my shoulder, and Mare helped me push Eden’s stroller.
At Urgent Care, a message. Dr. Button had heard and would see us himself. The older I get, the fewer true comforts I have. Dr. Button’s presence in these last months has been one of them, and I was so relieved to see him, so grateful that he cared enough to meet us here.
He looked her over, told us we could avoid the hospital if we promised to monitor her closely for the next few hours and call him if we saw any change.
Eden was fine. She didn’t throw up again, fell asleep at the regular hour, woke up at the usual intervals.
It was Ren who sweated and whimpered in her sleep. I tucked her in beside me, rubbed her back, whispered in her ear that I loved her just as much today as I did yesterday.
”We all make mistakes,” we kept telling her.
And then we were baking pizzas. I was standing at the counter and they were looking in the oven door. Ren suddenly leaned up, grabbed the door handle, and started to swing. The hot door opened, dropping her to the floor, landing on her.
I grabbed her up, angrier than I have ever been at any child in my life. Closer than I have ever been to spanking one.
I got in her face and I screamed.
”How many times have I told you not to touch the oven?“
“Lots,” she wept.
”I am tired of telling you what the rules are and getting ignored, Karenna. The rules are there to protect you, to protect your sisters and our home.”
And then I did it.
“Are you allowed to pick up your sister?”
”No,” she sobbed.
”If she’s on the couch do we EVER leave her there without a hand on her?” I sounded like a Marine drill sergeant – hard, unrelenting.
”No, no,” she wept.
”You knew the rules, and you broke them and what happened?”
”I hurt Baby Sissy.”
”Yes,” I said.
I realized then that she had done it on purpose, swinging on the oven door, driving me to come after her. She was punishing herself, punishing me, testing the limits of my authority and her ability to bring real destruction.
She needed me to make her face the consequences.
I could see my fault. Ren climbs furniture, speaks rudely, ignores instructions, smiles coyly and faces little rebuke. It was not a huge leap from that to picking up her sister.
I have fallen into the trap of the working mother: being lenient because I feel guilty that I am not doing enough for her. Because I don’t want our time together to be about my reprimanding her.
I have sacrificed good mothering for likeability, pitching over board the thing most critical to keeping the ship afloat: respect for rules; reliability; compliance with legitimate authority.
“You have to do as you’re told,” I said to her now. “The rules are there to protect you and your sisters. If you can’t stop yourself, I will stop you. I will come after you hard, Karenna, and our lives will be unpleasant, but you will be doing as you’re told, do you understand me?”
“I will stop myself,” she whispered.
And I know that she won’t. Not right away. She will continue to push, forcing me to block her at every turn until she is hemmed in, safe. Contained in a space she can bounce around in all she wants to with no chance of hurting herself or anyone else.
Hemming her in is my job, and it does not make me likeable. But whatever else I sacrifice in a day, I am reminded that doing that job must always be the priority.
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.
###
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
I am sitting on a bench in the late summer evening. Next to me, Renny is slurping on an ice cream cone. Cookie dough. Covered in rainbow sprinkles.
There is a full moon, and she is happy in it.
“I’m so pleased to take you out for a treat. You’ve done a good job, Doodley,” I say. “I know you are working on not lying and you are doing better.”
“I know that’s important,” she says.
“Right,” I say. “Because, you know, it’s always worse when you lie to Momma. And Momma always catches you, doesn’t she?”
“No.” She licks her chompers.
“Really?” I say casually. “When didn’t I catch you in a lie?”
“Silly. Like, every day,” she says.
“Oh.? … about what?”
She looks up, caught mid-devour, chin dripping.
“… hahaha …” she says. “I totally fahget.” She burrows her face back in the ice cream.
