Archive for the 'Vinaigrettes' Category

Vinaigrettes — Roodled Doodled and Totally Not Ready for School

Published on Tuesday, August 31, 2010 in Vinaigrettes. 25 Comments

On the way back from the trapeze lesson, Ren is asleep, Mare is pensive.

“Momma,” she says.  “Ren did the trick before I did.”

“Yeah, ” I grin.  “She did it before anyone did.”

“But she’s not better at it than me, is she?” she asks.

I pause.  It’s one of those moments that come along that seem so innocent, but really, you have a split second to decide something that will become policy.

It will dictate the relationship between the people you love most. 

“Oh, no, she’s totally better at it than you!” I say excitedly.

“Really?”

“Of course.  You know that, don’t you?”

“I — well, I guess I just didn’t want you to say it,” she says.

“Why wouldn’t I say it?”

“Because … Momma.  Because.  You’re never supposed to pick between us!”

“Mare, goof-ball, I’m not picking between you.  She’s going to be better at some things than you are.”

It is a hurt silence — the kind distinctive to almost-eight year-old girls.  I know she is fighting tears.

###

The family room is so completely disgusting I am ashamed to even speak of it.  I promised myself that before the start of school, it would be useable again.  After days of postponing I finally admitted to myself what it needed:

A power sander.

I bought a little hand doohicky, plugged it in and aimed it at the polyurethaned surface of the art table.

Do you have any idea what a hazard flying dried milk can be when shot at you from the sides of a sand paper belt? Yes, this is me, this is my life.  My children’s play table is so disgusting that the only solution is power tools.  I — who swore I would NEVER be that mother — am discovering that dried milk layers require two rounds of 150 paper to remove.

###

A market run.  This is what is sounds like in my car:

“Momma do you think Athena is the goddess of philosphy and war because people think and fight in the same way?”

“Momma you said we could have ice cream, I want ice cream.”

“NAAAAAAH!  NAAAAAAH!”

“Can I get ice cream?”

“Momma, are philosphy and war that much alike?  Most of the gods are gods of things that are alike and that makes me wonder –”

“Can we go right now?  Before the market?  I will behave better in the market if I have ice cream —”

“NAAAAAAAAH!”

“EDENY NOT EVERYTHING IS ABOUT YOU!  — Momma, ice cream?”

###

“How do you know she’s better at it than me, Momma?” Mare asks.

“Because she’s four and she did the trick first.  Did you hear what she said when she landed and the guy was helping her take the harness off? — He said, ‘You did it!’ Like he was totally shocked.  And she said, ‘Yeah, dat was what we practiced, right?’ — Like, um, hello?  Wasn’t I supposed to do it?”

Mare laughs.

“Do you remember the week before she was born when we were in the toy store and you wanted to buy both the Polly Pockets and the princess nail kit?  And I told you how this week you can’t have both because there is only one of you.  But next week there will be two, so we can buy two and you both get to have both?  This is like that.  You can’t be best at everything, but all the things the people in our family are good at, we get to share.  Renny going off that trapeze was a great moment, her great moment, and an awesome moment for our family.  Why are you so quiet, love?  Tell me what you’re feeling.”

“I’m really annoyed.”

“At me?”

“Yes.”

“That’s okay.  What are you annoyed about?”

“I’m annoyed because I hate it when you’re right.  And now I’m embarassed.”

“Oh, see, well, that’s my gift.  I don’t do trapezes, but I’m totally right all the time.”

She laughs.  It is my first real glimmer of the adult to come, the woman that will grow to be my friend, that will call me to ask me the complex questions about work and family and will come to know I don’t really have all the answers.  I should be thinking how awesome that will be, but on the drive home I am thinking that soon she will be a teenager and I think she is supposed to hate me then and I’m not sure I can stand it.

##

At the local fair.  I have been telling the children all day that the game people specialize in tricking kids and taking their money.  We walk buy one of the balloon-dart ones and the man says,

“Hey, mind if I give your kid a free throw?”

Ren’s little face lights up.

“Okay,” I tell her, “but remember that your chances of hitting one are slim, and I am not going to pay for a shot, okay?”

She picks up the dart, tosses it, and pops a balloon.

“OH YAY!!” she says.  “I WANT THAT ONE!” — Pointing to a fluffy unicorn.  (“It’s so fluffy I could DIE!”)

“No,” he says, “I said ‘free throw.’  I did not say ‘free prize.’”

Motherhood has made me bolder.

“Seriously?”  I ask.  “You’re going to do that to her?”

“I can’t give away a free prize,” he says, confidentially, like a car-salesman hiding a deal from his manager.

“You’re seriously going to stand here and pull that on this kid?”  I say — but then I get cut off.

“You are a tricker!” Ren says excitedly.  “JUST LIKE MY MOMMA SAID.  You trick kids!  You are so mean!  Let’s go, Momma!”

So we go, and then I spend my money putting her in a little hamster ball, which, frankly, I think I should have done years ago.

Yes, she's totally wearing flannel pajamas.

 

 ###

In the car, on the way home from the fair:

“So den he said, “I WILL NOT GIVE YOU THE PRESENT EVEN THOUGH THAT WAS AN AMAZING SHOT, LITTLE GIRL!’  And den I said, ”YOU ARE LYING AND TRICKING LITTLE KIDS AND YOU ARE A BAD PERSON AND IF I EVER COME TO ANOVER FAIR WIF YOU IN IT I WILL TELL ALL DA KIDS YOU ARE A LIAR AND A TRICKER.”

“Momma, did Ren really say all that?”

“Basically,” I say.

### 

The Tilty Floored Farmhouse, a few questions:

What’s with all the cups in the freezer?

Oh, experiments.

What’s in the cups?

Fruity medicine mix. – No!  Don’t move it!  She’ll know! 

Why is there a huge stuffed lion in your bed?

Because we can’t find the pillows.

I can’t help but notice the panty collection by the tree outside.

Is THAT where they’re all going?

So, really, I want to know, what does dried milk sawdust smell like?

Remember waking up in the middle of the night your first weeks nursing and you have a milky shirt and then the baby barfs on it and you’re sweating and full of nasty hormones?  Okay, squeeze a rotten tomato and some rotten chicken over that and you’ve got an idea.

25 Comments

Vinaigrettes — Doodled, Covered in Gum and Seeping

Published on Friday, July 2, 2010 in Vinaigrettes. 12 Comments

An aweome box-maze:  four levels, enclosed, with funky turns and corridors, climbing places and sticking places.  Mare has gotten turned around twice and is back near the entrance, crying.  I throw off my coat, dive in, belly crawl to her.

“What’s up?”  I ask.

“Momma, I can’t find my way,” she says, fighting tears.  “This is really irritating.  I feel so dumb!”

“Okay, Baby,” I say, putting a hand on her shoulder.  “Take some deep breaths and then we can talk about your options.”

A level up, Ren peers down on us.

“Mare!  I’m lost, too!  I don’t know the way out!”

We both scowl at her.

“Reeehn,” Mare says.

“Okay, I totally do!!” she says, shrugging, and crawling off.

###

Home.  Chaos.  I don’t even know what the hell day it is.  I take the kids to the craft store to buy crap to make while I get my life in order.  The hours pass, I kind of get some laundry done, and make a little order of the living room. 

I go outside and the deck is covered in paint and the girls are scrubbing frantically at it with the hose.  They’ve gotten the porch, the grill, and the walkway soaked.

Little purple foot prints run up the steps.

It’s permanent paint.

The phone rings.

“Do we need anything on my way home?”  Cute Husband asks.

“Cat food, light bulbs,” I say.

A Carribean vacation and three perfect little strait jackets.

“Just a warning,” I add.  “It’s chaotic here.”

“Oh,” he says.

###

In the shower I am scrubbing away at Ren’s scalp.   I have found gum, magical science potion, and remnants of the peanut butter I used to remove the latter.

“Baby, I feel like if I keep digging we’re going to find Hoffa,” I say.

“Eh?” she asks.

“Nothing,” I say.  “Rinse.  Grab a towel.”

I look at the clock.  Cute Husband is late.  He totally stopped for a drink.  I would have.

“Momma,” Ren says, “how about you just don’t worry about my hair?  It’s summer, and I like it dis way.”

“Oh, shut up with all your Zen wisdom and sit still, here comes the rinse.” 

###

“Okay, Ren, listen: your shoes have to go in the cubby, your coat on the hook, and your bag, too.  Every day, every time, always.  If you leave the stuff in the car, the car starts to get  very messy. In the cubbies, you can always find your shoes.  It’s very convenient, and plus, it makes our house look so pretty.  Okay?”

“Momma,” she says, wide-eyed.  “That was fascinating!“

###

 ”Wow, you definitely have a good case of it there,” Dr. Button says, squinting at the large holes of pus the poison ivy has eaten in my forearms.

“How did you get it?” he asks.

“We had a lot of it in the yard.  I didn’t want the kids getting into it so I sprayed it and then ripped it out by the roots.”

“Some job you have,” he says.  “Do you have the rash anywhere else?”

I point to my ankles, my toes — angry-red, dripping pus.

“Is it on your privates at all?” he asks.

Ren, sitting quietly in the chair beside the exam table quickly clamps two hands down over her mouth.  Her eyes above them are dancing with delighted horror.

“No,” I say, “thank God, not yet.”

From Ren: a giggle-choke followed by a quiet, “Peeeeeeenus — tee hee hee!!”

“Ren,” I say.

“Momma!” she spits, “wouldn’t it be funny if you had poison ivy on your bagina???”

“Sheesh, her vocabulary is great,” says Dr. Button.

“Baaaaaaagiiiiina!!!” Ren whispers, dissolving into giggles into her hand.

###

Dr. Button does not like that I am wheezing, that my arms are swollen, that pus is pouring out of me.  He gives me an aggressive dose of Prednisone.  Within two hours everything is dramatically better.  By bedtime, I can put my rings back on, and I do, and feel much better.

“Please don’t do that again,” Cute Husband says.  “With the poison ivy.  We need a solution that doesn’t involve a major drug intervention for you.”

“Meh,” I say,  “it turned out fine.  The kids were going to get into the poison ivy if we left it, and now it’s out, and with the Prednisone, I’m totally fine.”

“Momma ship can’t go down,” he says.  “It’s different now.  It’s different with you.  Please don’t take risks any more, okay?”

A flash of irritation, a sweep of gratitude.

To be worth so much to four such spectacular human beings.

“Okay,” I say with a kiss, trying not to think about the utter impracticality of it.  I am Momma Ship, it is a hard, back-breaking job, I am needed and I would not trade it.

12 Comments

Vinaigrettes — Stickered, Sunken and Undone

Published on Friday, June 4, 2010 in Everybody knows about Roo and Vinaigrettes. 15 Comments

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.

###

15 Comments

Vinaigrettes — So totally, thoroughly Doodled

Published on Friday, May 21, 2010 in Everybody knows about Roo and Vinaigrettes. 19 Comments

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.)

 

19 Comments

Vinaigrettes — And Don’t Call Me “Shrew.”

Published on Tuesday, March 2, 2010 in Vinaigrettes. 19 Comments

“Okay, everybody in,” I turn the key to the front door and it pops open to the welcome scents of Home and the unwelcome sight of stray socks, random backpacks (which must contain bacteria specimens that were once lovingly-prepared food), and shoes, oh LORD the shoes!  And why do none of them fit?  Or match up with each other?

“Okay, put your stuff away, shoes in the cubbies, coats and backpacks on the hooks and I want all this –”  don’t say it, don’t say it, “crap put away.”

“What crap?” Mare asks.

“And that’s a bad word,” I add.  We stare at the knee-high chaos in the entry way.  “That,” –stuff, clutter, miscellany –”crap,”  I say.  ”All of it, the stuff on the floor.”

“Which crap?”  Ren asks.

“Mwaha,” Mare says.

“You know which,” I say.

“No, which crap?” Ren asks.  “The crap over dere, or da crap here?”

“Look, Ren.  Wherever there’s crap?  I want it gone.  Okay?  You see crap, pick it up.”

“Oh, o’tay, Momma, we picking up crap now.”

“And don’t call it crap.”

###

I tiptoe into the darkness of our bed room.  Cute Husband jerks awake.  He has fallen asleep with the television on.  It was a movie.  Now it is a coin extravaganza on a shopping show.

“Oh my God,” he says.

“Yeah?” I pile in beside him, turn the TV off.  I am mostly asleep. 

“What time is it?” he asks. 

“2 a.m.,” I say.

“I had such a terrible dream.  And you were such a shrew.”

“What’s that, now?” I asked.

“I was a corrupt cop.”

“Oh,”

“And, I stole money.”

“How much?”

“20 grand.”

“You sold your ethics and your soul for 20 grand — that isn’t even a nice car.”

“Shrew.  YOU WERE A TOTAL SHREW.”

“So I told you that?  In your dream?”

“Oh, in my dream, you were all-freaking-over me about it.  ‘Don’t steal, it’s wrong, give it back,’ blah blah, my GOD.”

“I like that girl, you should marry her.”

“I was a bad cop, Liz.  I was dirty.  I was on the take.  And you were bringing me down.”

“You are not going to remember this conversation tomorrow, you know that, right?”

“Bad cops forget nothing.”

“Except the value of a dollar in 2010.”

“Bringing me down.  SHREW!”

“I am so blogging this.”

###

“Hey, do you remember our conversation last night?”  We’re playing cards and eating dinner.

“Which one?”

“The bad cop?”

“What?”

“The extortion?  The take?  The shrew??”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“For full details? — Read my blog tomorrow.”

###

Ren scared the — stuff, clutter, miscellany — out of Finn today.  She told him there was a scary monster hiding in his mother’s jewelry room.  That little bit of fantasy was preceded by the game of “golden city” whereby Mare, Ren and Greta trolled the yard for the key to the magical fairy kingdom inhabited by, oh, God, princess hobbits or whatever the hell it is they find there.

Anyway, they came in after this game, Finny trailing along looking so confused, and Greta and Mare went upstairs to debrief their visit to the magic kingdom and Finn was making his way back to the toy room when Ren told him all about the beast hiding behind El’s cabinet full of Swarovski-and-wire.

“AAAAAAAEEEEK!” he said, weeping his little heart out.

El held him, and gave me — I swear — a dirty look.

Which I passed right along to its rightful owner, Ren.  Who informed me that the whole thing had started with Mare so while Finn wept to his mother about monsters I told Mare to go over and make things right.

“There’s no monster,” she said to him.  “I … I, well, I made it up.”  She shot me a for-the-sake-of-the-children, I-lie sort of look.

“Finn, remember how, in your video game, things happen on the screen … and they aren’t real?”  El said in a soothing voice, stroking his head. 

No, no he doesn’t know that, El.  He doesn’t because he’s a boy.  He’s a boy and to him if you see it it’s there, if you don’t it isn’t, and he is not capable of spending sixteen hours parsing it to the satisfaction of his beleaguered heart.

“It’s not real, baby,” she says, stroking his head.  “It’s not real, it’s just pretend.”

And Greta, Mare and Ren soothingly stroked his little arms and legs, telling him it will be all right.

And you know why?  Because they have the magic swords of Ulderbrand and they will use them to strike down the monster with great force because THAT is what the people of the gold city really want.

And, Finn?  — Dude you are totally right to be scared.  Some day you’re going to marry a little girl all grown up.  And she may not even let you have nightmares in peace.

###

19 Comments

Vinaigrettes — With Entirely Too Much Peenus

Published on Friday, October 30, 2009 in Everybody knows about Roo, There's Just Something About Mary, Vinaigrettes and Zumba High Command is Like Santa. 18 Comments

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.

###

18 Comments

Vinaigrettes — Spooked, and College-Bound

Published on Monday, March 2, 2009 in Vinaigrettes. 21 Comments

“Mare — why aren’t you dressed?”

“I’m scared.”

It registers that this is the second time I have asked her that, and the second time she has given that answer. My turn. Again.

“What are you afraid of, Love?”

“Swordfish.”

“Pardon?”

“In my tights.”

“Oh.”

Cute Husband to the rescue:

“Mare, does that even make sense? Swordfish? I mean, they’re fish. They need water to live. Go put your tights on.”

“But I’m afraid of swordfish!”

“UNLESS YOUR TIGHTS HAVE BEEN LIVING AT THE BOTTOM OF THE ATLANTIC AND HAVE JUST NOW WANDERED IN, CRAMMED FULL OF SEA LIFE YOU HAVE NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT.”

###

Dr. GP: Boy you sure are sick.
DaMomma (hacking dramatically): I know. I’m dying. It’s been, like, three weeks.
Dr. GP: Lungs sound great, though. Really, blood pressure is excellent. You’re in perfect health.
DaMomma (crestfallen): Does that mean no drugs?
Dr. GP: Oh, I can’t give you anything for this. I really can’t justify it.
DaMomma (tiny, sad voice): Drink fluids?
Dr. GP: Lots.
DaMomma: Oh, yay.
Dr. GP: Thanks so much for coming.
DaMomma: Could you at least write my husband a note and let him know I’m really really sick?

###

“Momma, how do swordfish get their swords?”

“Oh, that’s easy Mare. They get it from crawling through little girl’s tights.”

###

We are making a dinner to celebrate Sunbeam’s college acceptance. I am forming tiny little hamburger sliders while the girls decorate with crepe paper, balloons, and dolls.

We mix Momma’s Buttery Cake and make buttercream with strawberry jam. I guess this is a taste of how I will feel when my own girls get their college acceptances. So proud. But I am lonely for Sunbeam. Our house won’t be the same without her.

“MOMMA TELL RENNY TO STOP FRIGHTENING ME!!” Mare screams into the kitchen. Renny, behind her, is holding a flashlight up to her face and cackling.

“BLOODY MAAAAAARY!!!” Renny shrieks. I stare for a long moment.

“Where did you learn that?” I ask.

“Daring Book for Girls,” she answers with a shrug.

“STOP THAT.”

“Oh’tay. Mare, it just a joke. I not like a swordfish or anything.”

“Promise you’ll stop?”

“Yeah, yeah, oh’tay.”

I stare dumbly at Ren.

“Who are you?”

###

“Momma, Renny took my doll and said I could have it back when I cleaned up her mess in the toy room.”

“KARENNA ELIZABETH.”

“I just joke’n. That’s all. Ha-ha-ha. Here’s your doll.”

“Seriously … who are you??”

###

“So where do swordfish live?”

“In the ocean,” I answer.

“… and in your closet,” Cute Husband says. “And probably under your bed, just don’t look.”

“Oh, and in the toilet,” I add.

“You guys are terrible,” Mare says. “Aren’t you supposed to, like, make me feel better?”

We look at each other and shrug.

“Sure, we could go that way. But it doesn’t sound like as much fun.”

###

The girls surprise Sunbeam. Mare has written her a card that says, “YAAAAAY COLLEGE WOOHOO!!”

She also has made up a party agenda:
1. Cake
2. Dinner
3. Party Games

They have put a long streamer of crepe paper between two easy chairs for Limbo.

Because if there is anything a girl should do when she gets into college, it’s Limbo.

###

DaMomma: Was your party good?”
Sunbeam: Yes. It was great. Ren ate mostly fries, though. And cake.
DaMomma: That’s okay. She was good otherwise?
Sunbeam: Well, at one point she took my cell phone and told me I could have it back after I cleaned up her mess.
DaMomma: Oh. Excellent.

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Vinaigrettes — Sliced, diced and hung from the stirrups

Published on Thursday, December 18, 2008 in Everybody knows about Roo, Our Eden and Vinaigrettes. 17 Comments

“Momma, I want a new muver.”

Oh, good grief, I thought we were beyond this.

We are in the Loser Cruiser, zipping along the Pike on our way to New York, to Luke’s birthday. I am handing Ren bites of bagel and an orange juice to sip from. I have just told her she can’t have cookies.

“Baby, do you want more juice?”

“I not your baby,” she says. “I want a new muver.” She stares. I consider for a second, put the juice in the cup holder, and pick up my In Touch magazine.

###

“Momma.” Ren says. “Momma. MommamommamommamommaMAAAAAAAMA!!!”

Is Angelina Jolie really pregnant again? Ooo … story on page 12.

“Mamamamamamamamamma!!!” Ren shrieks.

“Momma?” Mare asks. “Why aren’t you answering Renny?”

“Because I am not her mother. So I don’t have to answer her any more.”

“MAMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!”

“Oh. Well can you turn up the volume on the movie?”

“Sure, Love.”

“MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”

Cute Husband: You really can be a bitch sometimes.

Me: Yeah, and you wonder where she gets it.

###

“Momma, please may I have some more juice.”

I turn to acknowledge Ren for the first time in 10 miles.

“Am I your Momma?”

She pauses, her face a battlefield of emotions. She knows I have won and it’s pissing her off.

“Momma, it was my tummy that said that. My tummy says it doesn’t want you for a Momma any more.”

I put the juice back in the cup holder, and turn back to my magazine.

“My tummy wants Miss Ellie,” she taunts. “Call Miss Ellie, tell her we coming right now and I her baby.”

Oh, how I’d love to. Unfortunately, I swore to support her sobriety.

###

“Momma, I sorry.” It’s an exhausted little whimper. Her outrage morphed to concern, and then into sobs which have just now subsided. She reaches her hand out to me.

I take her hand and squeeze.

“Never ever say that to Momma again,” I say. “It’s mean. And Momma doesn’t deserve mean.”

“I love you,” she kisses my hand. I hand her the juice and she gulps down a few long swallows, and I am glad she is my second. Because I am smart enough to know how much she needs me to push back without ever being cruel.

###

“I haffa pee.”

“That works out well, I have to barf.”

“I haffa pee SO BADLY!!”

I coach her through holding it while Cute Husband pulls the Loser Cruiser off at an urban Connecticut exit with a Bertuccis. I fly out the door and waddle to the ladies’ room.

“MOMMMA!! I WANT YOU!!” Ren shrieks. (It’s feast or famine with her.)

From the ladies’ room, I can hear her shrieking at her father in the men’s room. I am finished before they are and I wait for them on a bench outside the restrooms.

“She wouldn’t pee,” Cute Husband says, dropping her on me.

“But she said –”

“I know. I put her on the toilet and she just screamed at me and refused to go.”

She sits, blinking at me. I take her to the ladies’ room and drop her on the toilet. She pees instantly.

“I sorry, Momma,” she says. “I just really wanted you.”

I stare, speechless.

“I really sorry,” she says again, peeing happily away. We collect Cute Husband in the hallway. “I sorry, Daddy,” she says, with a smooch to his forehead.

That may be the first case of bladder-control-for-spite I’ve ever heard of.

###

“This baby sure does kick a lot,” I tell Auntie on the phone. “Today I was at Trader Joe’s and a woman said, ‘Excuse me, but I think ther’s a foot sticking out of your side!’”

“She’s going to be just like Ren.”

“Cosmically imposisble,” I answer. “God does not give us more than we can handle.”

###

“I don’t see any signs of labor,” the doctor says, peering at the dark sonogram screen. I find cervixes infinitely less interesting to look at on sonograms than babies are.

I’ve been bleeding, and I am the proud owner of the two most thorough maternal medicine doctors on the planet Earth. They didn’t waste a lot of time chatting before sending me to the super-duper sono machine to check things out. So here’s me, feet in the stirrups with my kids in the room.

I’ve banished them to play behind a curtain. They’re pretending to be the Wizard of Oz, officially making this one of the more trippy doctor’s appointments I’ve ever had.

“You must kill the witch!” Mare is intoning, while swinging her sister in a rolling office chair.

“You have a very long cervix,” the doc says. Oh. Swell. Is that good?

Apparently the cervix is good to go and now we’re going to check out the placenta. This one is done abdominally, so I get to sit up a little while the doctor finds the belly transducer.

We let Mare and Ren come out from behind the curtain.

“Cool!” Mare says. She grasps one of the stirrups and swings from it. Renny follows suit with the other one.

“What are these for?”

“My feet,” I say casually.

“Oh, put your feet in them, then,” Mare says.

“Not right now,” I say.

“Really, the doctor wants you to!”

“NOTRIGHTNOW!!” I hiss.

“Sheesh, okay, Momma,” Mare says. The doctor grins at me and piles jelly squiggles on my belly.

Ren scampers up to sit beside me on the exam table.

The girls look at the screen with wide blue eyes. And then from the darkness a face is peering back at them. I have managed to stay completely calm all afternoon, but as Ren inhales sharply next to me, I start to shake.

“Sissy,” she breathes, and waves. Just then the baby’s hand comes up.

“She’s waving back, Ren,” I say. She squeals.

“She’s beautiful,” Mare whispers. “Hi, Baby Sister!”

I force breaths through my tight chest. I’m so tired. I want to go home. I want to feel better.

Someone comes and takes the kids to raid a holiday cookie basket in the snack room. The doctor goes with them, and then comes back a few minutes later to talk to me.

“Everything’s fine,” he tells me. He is peering at a more detailed picture of a placenta then I could have imagined anyone would ever want. “I don’t know what it was, but you and baby look just fine.”

I nod, breathe.

“You have great kids,” he tells me. “So well behaved. They’ve selected cookies. They both picked the smallest ones.” Just then my girls march in chomping on gigantic frosted cookies on sticks. Mare’s is a snowman, Ren’s a snowflake. I laugh.

“You’re ready for three,” the doc says. I wonder if he has any idea how much he has just made my day. I smile and then he looks down and frowns.

“What happened to her shoes?” he points to Ren’s pink socks, now brown on the bottoms.

“Can we just pretend we don’t see that?” I asked.

“Haha Renny’s not wearing shoes and Momma didn’t figure it out until after we walked through the slushy parking lot!! AHAHAHAHA!” Mare said.

Always, always something manages to kill the mood.

###

Left on DaMomma’s voicemail:

“Hey, Liz, it’s El. Here’s what I think about Ren and my sobriety: there’s a rule in recovery that if you are in pain, you are allowed to take something for the pain because it doesn’t elevate you, it brings you back to baseline. So in my little alcoholic mind I am thinking you’d be doing me a favor letting me take her because no one could ever blame me for needing to drink again.”

###

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