I
don't know that this is a story. I don’t think so. Really it's just a complaint
that the various orifices on my person are, evidently, not my own. I mean, to
the extent that my body is not mine now that I don’t have just one but two
children, is a given. It is exponential. I do not know how women who have
multiples naturally do it. I just don’t. I’m certain that I’d be driven to take
a very long drive off a very short bridge.
I
mean, I recall two years ago when I had pneumonia for seven months, through all
the end-of-year major holidays and I had to sleep downstairs because my
coughing kept everyone awake. I got so that I kind of liked it, which is definitely disturbing because amongst the many
discomforts that were involved was the one where I was continuously awoken each
morning by the really unpleasant smell of a catbox that had been, how shall I put
it, “bombed.” Every morning. It was delightful. Anyway, during that time my four year old used to use me as a bed. All 108 pounds of me.
Where
was I? I lost my train of thought. I was complaining about so many different
things I forgot the original complaint.
The
thing is, my one-year old is cute so I constantly feel manipulated into
tolerating whatever indignity I am currently experiencing if her fat face is
smiling at me. It's unfair, really, and if I could lodge a complaint, say with
the Bureau of Manipulative Fat Babies, for instance, I’d be first in line to do
it. As it is I am left to depend upon my own wits which are, most days,
extremely limited given my average of 3 hours/night of sleep. For example, the
other day in a conversation, I was trying recall a word that my friend thought
was some technical architectural term. After ten minutes had lapsed, i recalled the word and he
realized it wasn't a technical term. It was "beam." He snickered and
just stopped short of, I think, calling me a bonehead. What are friends for if
not to point out precisely how pathetic sleep deprivation makes you? I'm
grateful, really I am.
On
to the main topic. Orifices. Specifically ones on my head. Ears. Nose. Those,
apparently, are my neckless wonder’s favorite targets.
Now,
to back up a bit, I’ve been enjoying said three hours of sleep per night
because my older daughter has had an absolutely dreamy combination of 1) whooping cough, 2) nightmares, and 3) cute
manipulativeness. Yes, it runs in the family. I don’t know where they get it from. I,
for one, have all of my self-respect intact and I never once resort to relying
on my appearance or some form of cuteness to get what I want. Never.
One
night was so creative, I almost burst out laughing and offered my daughter
some applause. I had to hide my mouth behind my hand. You see, she had come
down the stairs and looked at both my husband and myself with her disarmingly
big, doe-eyes with those insanely long lashes (she is going to be an absolute
killer when she gets a bit older and as one of my friends said, my husband is
doomed). And she smiled. After which
she preceded to relay a story of having had a nightmare (my husband had left
her room ten minutes prior), which was very elaborate. Now, unless you are like
me, which my daughter in this respect is not, dream details are not your strong
suit. I, on the other hand, can recall the most precise details and then draw
elaborate analytical conclusions regarding their meaning, having had more than my
fair share of psych training, from them. My daughter, however, usually offers a
few broad descriptive strokes and then says she was scared.
This
recitation of her “dream” was far too detailed and sounded suspiciously like The Wizard of Oz, however. Now,
her being six and me being very in touch with what disturbed me as a young
child—caveat here that I’m neither stupid nor crunchy so she has all her
vaccines, I don’t shun saying “good girl” and I think this whole
vegan/gluten-free/idiot complex is, well, idiotic—I do get psychology and
development. So I haven’t had her watch that. Especially since nightmares, like
me, have been a problem for her since she was about three. We did just see a couple of friends whom I could
imagine allowing their daughters to watch said film. And then relaying the plot
to my older daughter.
My
response after I was able to remove my hand from my mouth without laughing was,
“Okay, well, go on up and I’ll sleep with you tonight.” She went up, satisfied,
and then I turned to my husband. “Do you think she’s lying?”
“Yes,”
he smiled. “I’ll go talk to her. Nothing heavy-handed, just that she doesn’t
have to have a nightmare in order for one of us to keep her company a little
longer.”
Well,
I did end up sleeping with her. Of course that meant that I didn’t actually
sleep. What I did was lie down next to her. And proceed to endure kicking, smacking.
Did I mention the part about this being a slice?
Anyway,
the next morning, most of which I had been unfortunately conscious, became even
more unfortunate when I fell asleep at three only to be woken at six by a very
happy, burbling and very fat sidling
fat face. I know I'm repeating myself, but it is so satisfyingly round, that face. Everyone who sees it says so. At any rate, this fat face was sidling along the edge of the bed, if you must know. This face
espied my face. So, doing what any normal fatty would do, it observed something
important, yet incomprehensible to normal adults, along the lines of “Tsshwhyt!”
followed by, “Brrrwayyy!”
You
see what I mean? How can I resist. Plus, not that I could see it at the moment,
but she has a mullet. Yes. My first daughter had a baby combover when all her
hair fell out at three months, with only a bit on the top. It was this simply amazing combover. This one never had a bald period. It just
kept growing. But some parts grew faster than other parts, primarily in the back. Which
has resulted in a mullet. Or tail. That is actually one of her many nicknames, “Miss
Tail.” My older daughter observes that her hair is “work in the front, party in
the back,” a clever variation on the usual “business in the front” description
of the mullet.
Anyway,
there she is with her hair sticking up all over, her cheeks resembling a St.
Bernard’s jowls, happy as an exceedingly fat clam, and with a tail. I mean, really. It’s a bit thick. Yuck. I
don’t know why I am forced to deal with such things, but there you are.
Now
she sees me smiling back at her, which means that of course she understands she’s
being encouraged. That’s when it happens. She takes one of her stubby, fat
sausage fingers and just sticks it firmly right up my left nostril. No, this
was not an accident. This was intentional. She is babbling the entire time and grinning broadly. So, she continues
to do it. As a matter of fact, she withdraws her finger, notices my alarmed
response, and then sticks it up there again to explore. She is picking my nose, performing an excavation which clearly makes her feel very proud. Triumphant, even.
That’s
right. This is my reward for sacrificing myself for my older daughter. I get
woken up by a fat face who uses her stubby sausage fingers to pick my nose. This
is really great. I mean, I cannot imagine how much better it can get honestly. Dignity.
Self-respect. Clearly, these are specious concepts unnecessary for me to
maintain my sanity. I have no idea where all my diplomas are. I think I may have
to order copies and it might be a good idea. Just so I can remind myself about those "good" old days.