My parents were hippies. You know this. I know this. The guy down the block prolly knows it to, but I’m not asking him because HELLO AWKWARD.
That explanation alone probably explains why they would give me a concoction called, “Coffee, milk, sugar,” starting at age two. I delighted in this drink. I remember sitting at the table, feeling ever-so-grown-up drinking coffee out of a coffee mug JUST LIKE THE OLD PEOPLE DID.
I don’t recall spazzing out and running around like an asshole afterward, but it’s possible.
For Ben’s first Christmas in this house, which had to be (scratches head)(counts on fingers)(stares at wall)(guesses), pushing five, six years ago, I lovingly selected a very tiny coffee mug for him. It was a cheap old thing, but it was so wee and so darling and so motherfucking adorable that I nearly ovulated all over the chick next to me at Crate and Barrel.
I’m not sure what exactly I was thinking he’d do with it. My son, while he is many things, is not an adventurous sort. Milk makes him weep, he doesn’t understand the concept of hot chocolate (until his siblings pointed out how rad it is, I might add). He’s a water-on-the-rocks kinda kid. I respect that.
My daughter, on the other hand, is extremely adventurous.
She also has an obsession with coffee. Normally, she’ll pop up next to me as I’m slurping down the sweet, sweet nectar of the gods, and very coyly ask to dip her binkie in the coffee. If Daver’s not around to bitch at me, I let her. Why the fuck not?* You’re only two once. And coffee? Well, coffee is FOREVER.
A couple of days ago, I realized the downfall to letting her dip-dip her binkie in my coffee is this: she’s infecting me with plague. (I wouldn’t put it past her to dip her binkie in my coffee for that very purpose.)
So I dragged out that wee, adorable cuppy that I’d bought for Ben so many years ago. I ovulated all over the kitchen as I put a splash of coffee, a heaping amount of sugar, and a liberal amount of milk into it.
“There,” I said. “Mimi’s coffee.”
I’ve never seen her grin so largely.
And proving once again that she is, in fact, my daughter, she downed that motherfucker.
Then asked for seconds.
Atta girl, Mimi.
*not actually asking WHY NOT? I’m sure it’s not fabulous for her and frankly? I’m not too worried about a teaspoon of coffee.
Bobbing and weaving in time to the music in her head, she bounded over to me.
“Mama,” she smiled largely, the winning smile that I just know she’ll be using on her future dates. “I wanna watch more Tuff Puppy.”
“No Baby-Pants,” I laughed. “Not tonight. It’s bedtime.”
“Okay,” she stretched her smile as widely as she could. “Can we watch more Tuff Puppy on SUNDAY?”
“Sure,” I giggled at her inflection and emphasis. No one is gonna say no to this kid. “We can watch it on Sunday.”
“OKAY,” she broadcast to the whole house. “THANKS MAMA.”
She bobbed and wobbled off to get her diaper changed before bed.
I sat there, looking after her, bemused and amazed and more than a little bit teary.
It’s coming up on her third birthday. To think this tiny tot with an attitude the size of Texas was once the very same baby whose life I prayed for. Who’s head I wept into. Who’s tiny feet I once held onto like they were lifelines to a world in which no NICU’s, no PICU’s existed. It’s hard to reconcile that these are the same people.
Yet they are.
For her birthday this year, I will celebrate. I will buy a monster of a cake and we shall eat it, sharing it happily with anyone who can be bothered to brave the frigid January air. This year, we will celebrate.
And maybe, just maybe, I can let the ghosts of my past, who still haunt my present, be silent.
If only for a day.
Thank you to everyone who voted for me yesterday. I feel like a douchebag asking – trust me – but this would be so awesome for Band Back Together.
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My children follow me around everywhere I go. I think they’re trying to ascertain what it is I’m going to do next, or at least, that’s what I tell myself when all three of them are crammed into my tiny bathroom, clamoring like a basket of wriggling puppies to sit on my lap as I pee. Or maybe they’re just trying to annoy me. Because really, who wants to yell, “ALEX GET YER ELBY-BONE OUTTA YER SISTER’S FACE” while peeing?
Not me.
My daughter is especially keen on following me around, yelling at me to do her bidding, because she’s two and that’s what two-year old’s do.
A couple of weeks ago, I’d wandered upstairs to look for a hot dog or get dressed or see if Rod Stewart was in my bedroom yet and, like a sassy puppy, my daughter followed me upstairs. Perhaps she, too, was wondering if Rod, The Bod, was in my bedroom.
I began to do whatever it was I was doing while Amelia spotted – in the corner – a bag. Not just any bag, mind you, a HELLO KITTY BAG. It had various office supplies in it, as I’m SLOWLY moving my office out of the dining room and upstairs (for better privacy to watch my cat videos) and I’d grabbed some things and hastily shoved them in what had been a birthday bag for me.
Mili, seeing the bag, immediately went nuts. Anything Hello Kitty is, by default, now hers, so before I could stop her, she dumped the contents of the bag out onto the floor, proclaiming, “DIS IS MILI’S HELLO KITTY BAG.”
Fair enough, kiddo. Fair enough.
While I had my back turned, the kid began to rifle through my jewelry box – a mixture of costume and fine jewelery – and delicately, she sifted through it. I remember that being one of my favorite things as a child – my mother’s jewelry box, not stealing my own crap – so I let her go through it, figuring she’d claim some of the more garish pieces as her own.
Nope.
Oh no.
No, my daughter carefully picked out the most expensive bits of jewelry and slowly placed each piece in the Hello Kitty bag. “Mimi’s necklace.” “Mimi’s ring.” “Mimi’s bracelet.”
When she’d thoroughly magpied my collection, she looked at me, smiled impishly, pulled the Hello Kitty bag up onto her shoulder like a purse, and walked happily out of my room and down the stairs. With my diamond collection.
She’s so her mother’s daughter.
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