Archive for the 'Everybody knows about Roo' Category

I should have gotten the iPod a long time ago.

I have always loved music. The car radio blasts, and whenever I cook, the small boombox propped in the living room window serenades me. But for the last several years I’ve been reliant on local radio stations. My CD collection is in heavy black binders that are impossible to go through and besides — I usually only like one or two songs on a CD and get bored if I listen to the same album too long.

For this surgery, Cute Husband was adament. Do it right. Let’s get you an iPod, and let’s have you load it with your music. Not just because he didn’t want to share his any more, but because I needed one of my own.

He’s such a nice guy.

It’s small and purple and shiny, and it came with the gift of $100 to load it up. This is astonishing to me. Back when I was buying CDs, $100 would buy about four or five of them, which would amount to about six songs I loved and about 30 I could take or leave. I would then make mixed tapes that would take about 15 songs each.

I’ve spent $80 so far and have 100 songs, about five hours of music none of which I want to fast forward through. I walk around with one ear bud in, shaking my little preggie self to songs I’ve missed without ever really realizing I was missing them.

This morning while I was loading some old favorites from college days, Renny scrambled into bed beside me and started wiggling her little body to the beat.

“I love dis song!” she said.

“I just bet you do,” I answered. “Why aren’t you dressed for school?”

“Can dis be my song?”

“Oh my, yes. You need to get dressed, though.”

“MY SONG!!”

“GET DRESSED.” I clicked the song off and stared at her. She hopped down.

“But you turn it back on when I come back, right? It’ll be my song?”

“No one will ever doubt it.”

She scampered off and came back a few minutes later, wearing a flowered purple dress and striped pink tights, her hair a filmy cloud around her head.

“Momma you promised –” I clicked the play button, it was back on, and she was shimmying.

The song?

Bitch, by Meredith Brooks.

And yes, she wore the footie pajamas to the hairdressers.

“Ren — what are you wearing?”

“I want to!”

“It’s your sister’s nightgown.”

“I like it!”

“Fine. But you must wear underwear.”

“Noooo … I don’t really feel like it.”

“YOUMUSTWEARUNDERWEAR.”

“No, thanks.”

“Tights then.”

“The ones with sparkles.”

“Fine.”

She came home from school with a large rubber band holdng up the excess fabric on the nightgown. I can only hope that today they took tons of pictures for the class website so absolutely everyone can know what a snappy dresser my kid is.

###

“Momma, Ren threw her doll at me.”

“Karenna did you throw your –”

“Well, Momma, let me tell you …”

“Stop. Right here. Listen to me. If you lie to me you’re going to be very sorry. Did you throw a doll at your sister?”

“I sorry.”

“Sit in time out.”

“Momma, I sorry.” I point to the spot on the kitchen floor.

“I sorry Momma!”

I lean in close.

“You are in very big trouble. If you want to make it worse that’s up to you, but I promise you will be sorry.”

She sits on the floor and starts to wail.

“I sorry, Momma, I so sorry!”

(a minute passes)

“Momma, when you don’t answer me I think you mad at me! MOMMA IF YOU DON’T ANSWER I WILL THINK YOU ARE MAD!!”

“You hit your sister. I am very mad at you.”

“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!”

(more minutes, more wailing.)

“You don’t love me any more do you?”

(Another minute, more wailing.)

“Momma, if I’m still your baby you’ll let me out of time out!” (No repsonse.) “I guess I not your baby any more! I NOT YOUR BAYBEEEYWAAAAAA!!”

***

“Come here, Karenna,” I say. She gets up and comes, weeping, head hung.

“You must not ever hit one of your sisters ever. They are Momma’s babies. Nobody hits Momma’s babies. Do you understand me?”

Weep sniffles, nod.

“Are you Momma’s baby?”

“Yes.”

“Yes. That’s right. What do you think I would do if someone hit you?”

“You be mad!”

“That’s right. Okay, go ahead and join Sister in the family room, and take these strawberries with you.”

“YAY!!!” she grins, claps, skips off.

There is a tremor in the Force.

###

“Momma … can I?” She is brandishing a box of creamy organic marshmallows.

“One,” I say. “And let’s grab one for Sister, too.”

“Good idea, I take it to her.” She scarfs down a marshmallow and reaches for the second one.

(A few minutes later. Mare approaches me with a wad of sticky white goo in her hand.)

“Momma … is this really for me? What the heck is it?”

Ren is standing next to her, head hung. Somewhere between the box and Sister, about half the volume of marshmallow has been lost. Licked, by the looks of it.

“Guess what Mare?” I say. “You get to pick yourself TWO fresh lovely marshmallows to eat!”

“TWO???” Renny wails. Mare shrugs and picks the two largest ones. Ren sobs.

###

Ren bawls. “Two marshmallows … Sissy got TWO!!”

I am on the phone with that Grand Man.

“Could you please be quieter,” I say to Ren.

“Momma, I not your friend any more.”

“That’s just fine,” I say. “But a little quieter, I can’t hear Granddad.”

“I NOT YOUR BABY ANY MORE BUT I STILL GRANDDAD’S BABY!!!” she shrieks. In my other ear, the sound of Dad’s velvety guffaws. “GRANDDAD I STILL YOUR BABY AND I LOVE YOU!!!”

“Oh my God!!” he gasps. “24 hours a day of that!! That’s great!”

“He says you are his baby,” I tell her. “And he loves you, too.”

“When I go to Colorado to live with him?”

“Just as soon as I can get you a ticket, my love.”

The guffaws die. “Fat chance,” he says. “I’ve already paid my dues.”

“Yeah,” I answer. “I’m not sure Ducky would say you’ve quite paid enough yet.”

“HA! — You forget she knew you.”

###

It has become our Friday afternoon tradition: We’re in the big bed. Ren is propped up on pillows, watching Noggin and sipping milk. I’ve stopped feeling bad that I’m not doing something great like taking her to the park or teaching her Latin. I lie on my left side and work on the laptop. Little Bill is on. I love that show.

“She kicked!!” Ren gasps. She stares at my belly, which is unquestionably shifting. She puts a hand out.

“She’s holding my hand!”

“After she’s born, she’ll be sitting here with us,” I say. “Should she be next to you? Or should I go in the middle?”

“I am worried that she won’t like me,” Ren says, in startlingly perfect English.

It is as though her true adult self has wriggled free, offering glimpse into her soul without her consent.

“Oh,” I say. “That must feel so scary to be worried about that. It would be very sad if she didn’t like us, wouldn’t it?”

“Maybe she would not like you eiver, Momma.”

“Oh my! That would be a grumpy baby!”

“Or Daddy, or Mare!”

“That would make her the grumpiest baby I had ever seen! How could anyone not like us? We’re great!”

“And then maybe she would leave us.”

“What would we do then?” I ask.

“We would say ‘No! You can’t leave!’”

“Right. We would say, ‘Sorry, sweetheart. We are your family. We’re sorry you’re grumpy, but you’ll feel better soon.”

She nods, and the lines in her face soften a little.

“Sometimes babies are grumpy,” I say. “But she’ll like us. We’re great!”

“Yeah! We great!”

“Besides, that’s not what’s going to happen. She’s so excited to meet you. She already loves you. She tells me every day.”

“She does?”

“Sure. See that?” The lump is moving again. The hard little ball under Ren’s hand shifts closer to her. “She’s holding your hand, Ren. She just wants to be with you. She loves you so much already. She can’t wait.”

Ren rubs the little lump, puts her face against my belly.

“I love you, Sissy,” she says.

And I wonder when Eden will know that Ren’s ferocity disguises one of the great tender hearts of the world.

###

As I write this, Ren is back in time out. She threw a toy.

She is singing, “I know you are not my friend and I am not your friend, either.” It’s actually quite lyrical.

The Doodle has a fine tradition of claiming the New Year for herself.

She was baptized on New Year’s day. The following year she celebrated her anniversary by suffering third degree burns over her head and face.

This year she fell backward down a flight of stairs.

I’ve been waiting for it to happen ever since we moved into this house. There’s almost no hallway on our teeny second floor, just a little landing with doorways for two bedrooms and a bathroom. We were talking in the bathroom doorway, Mare, Ren and I. Ren was gesturing and walking backward. I saw it coming, shot a hand out, but it was too late.

She was rolling, bang, bang, bang down 15 steep hardwood stairs. A sick thud and then silence.

Mare started screaming.

Remember you’re pregnant, don’t fall and hurt the other one. Don’t pick her up. Neck injury: in-line stabilization, look for bleeding in the ears, nose …

“Mary stop screaming. Mary stop screaming.”

“I can’t Momma I can’t is Renny dead is she dead?”

“She’s not dead. Stop screaming. You can do that after she’s okay. Right now I need you to go get a blanket. Go now.”

Ren was flat on her back, blinking up at the ceiling. No blood. She saw me and let out a shriek.

“Okay, Baby, you’re all right. Just lie here for second.” Best bet is to call 911 and let them backboard her. Man, I’d rather not put her through that if we don’t have to.

She was trying to sit up.

“Okay, babe, we’re not going to sit up just yet. First I need to know what hurts?”

“My leg!” she shrieked. I took a peek, horrified I would see a bone sticking out. Nothing but a scrape, the kind you would see after a playground fall. Mare brought the blanket, we tucked it around her, and sat for a minute. Then I put my hands on her feet, and squeezed lightly. Then her calves, her knees, her thighs, her hips.

“Does anything hurt?” I asked.

“My leg!” she repeated. I squeezed it, more firmly, and she didn’t react. I got to her shoulders, her chin, her neck. She never winced.

The little shit was completely fine.

“Okay, Ren, do you want to try to get yourself up?” I asked. She shrugged and got up and minutes later we were on the couch. She had an ice pack on her head and I had a phone to my ear.

“Can I have a band aid?” Ren asked.

“Renny,” Mare started. “If we give you a band aid, I am afraid the doctor can’t look at it. How about a scarf?”

Oh, yeah, ’cause this situation makes so much sense.

I was sure Dr. Button’s hold music was threatening to give me a psychotic episode. Finally –

“Family Medical Practice, can you hold?”

“No, no, look, I really can’ –”

“It’ll just be a minute, I have a doctor standing in front of me, just wait.”

A few more long minutes.

“Hi, I’m back, how can I help you?”

“I have a 3 year-old who has just fallen down a flight of stairs.” About, oh, say, thirty-freaking-minutes-and-a-techno-Beethoven ago.

“Oh, you have to take her to the pediatric ER.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, this happened to my kid a while ago. It’s horrible, you have to hold her down for the MRI and she’ll scream. It’s really bad.”

I. Don’t know what to say.

“… I’ll never forget the way she screamed, seriously, you’ll need a drink afterward.’”

Right, great, thanks. Hey, could I speak to someone with, I dunno a medical opinion?

“I’d rather skip the ER if at all possible. She doesn’t seem hurt. Could I maybe speak to a doctor about my options?”

“Oh, let me see if anyone is around.”

Ohmagawd we’re back to Techno Bethoven.

“Momma, I o’tay,” Ren said, patting my arm comfortingly. “It’s no big deal.”

The woman was back on the line.

“Dr. Button is here. He wants to know if she lost conciousness?”

“No –” Now I’m all excited to show off. I’ve been a freaking superhero in the last 30 minutes and it’s about time someone over the age of six witnessed it. “Pupils are identical, no bleeding from her head, nose or mouth. She is sitting up and appears alert and oriented. There is a bruise on the front of her head. I’ve got ice on it and it hasn’t gotten any bigger in the last twenty minutes. I can’t find a bruise on the back of her head at all, and she’s not showing any pain when I touch her head and neck.”

I could hear her reporting it back to him, and hear him say, “They don’t have to go if she doesn’t want to.”

“He says you don’t have to go,” the woman said.

“Okay,” I said.

“The important thing,” she continued, “is to make as little fuss out of the whole thing as possible.”

Am I on camera?

“Okay, right, thanks,” I said.

“I o’tay, Momma,” Ren repeated. “Can I have some ice cream?”