Your Sister is Your Biggest Fan

Do you remember me telling you the story of how Casey Dog's barking interrupted my lunch with your great grandfather, the man you are named after? Well, it interrupted the dream lunch, since he died long before you or I were born.

At about 2:00 AM, your father and I woke to the barking, rubbed our eyes, looked at each other, slipped out of bed and crept down the hallway, not saying a word. Casey kept taking steps forward, slowly, waiting for us to follow her, and we did,  towards the rattling noise coming from the third floor. A trapped bird flying frantically through three small rooms (one soon to become yours) trying to escape, but there were no opened windows or chimney vents, nor holes in the attic. Its entrance a mystery. We freed it because that is what you do for trapped birds.

I kept remembering  the poem The Raven by Edgar Alan Poe.  Although the poem's theme is not about joy and love gained, the bird plays as a messenger from the afterworld, and at that moment, I thought of you. I knew that you were inside me, growing, which is why the first pregnancy test was done in the early hours of the morning.

When you were born, I was sure that the heavens had actually opened so that G-d could deliver you personally. Time seemed to stop.  I didn't want to move from the first day of your life because nothing mattered after that, nothing was created, nothing died, to stay forever in that moment.  Like a child, I believed that only your father, me and you existed, and that when the door closed to our happy home our guests, friends, neighbours simply disappeared.

Your father and I looked at your fragile little hands that we carefully navigated through sleep suits, your large chocolate eyes, and that fantastic smile. My finger went round and round the garden on your tummy and your little toes and soon you sang the song to me. Each day a new trick magically appeared you began to count, read, tell jokes, collect stones and create hairstyles, a proper little girl.  We watched the angel grow her wings and we marvelled.   Why would G-d have allowed us to be your parents when we really weren't worthy?

Soon my stomach grew again, and you barely noticed or cared because you were three, but the rest of the world did.  Your father and I looked at each other excited but worried. We appreciated that we could never create another child like you. Who could capture us the way you had? So, we agreed to not compare.

Your sister, born in water, our little mermaid, cuddled her wet body into me, trying to gain warmth. As she does this morning under a soft blanket while we watch Sinbad. I dipped down into the bath and cried. Your father ran his finger gently down the side of her cheek and kissed my forehead. She was not like you; she was like her. All night I stayed awake, gazing at her. The first sleepless night of many.  Only this night, I smiled.

You couldn't wait to hold her, and we have a picture of it somewhere. She looked at you and quieted and calmed.  You made cooing noises, smiled and she squeezed your finger. Love born during an introduction. You couldn't get enough of her, so you would poke her when she slept, which she didn't mind as long as it was you she saw when her eyes opened. When I called you into the kitchen, you came with her in your arms (to my terror). You would sing to her and play peek-a-boo and when she grew her first bottom teeth she would show it to us in many smiles.  You barely noticed your positioning being moved from centre of the universe. That came later.

She stopped being your favourite toy, sometime after her second birthday. You were pushed off to school and there she stayed at home, in my arms.  You would come home and find remnants of crafts, puzzles, play dates and mummy sitting tired on the settee. You would pull at my sleeve and I would say, just let me finish my coffee, one more sip, but you would pull harder and harder until I said it louder and louder, which usually made you retreat to your dolls or your crafts. She would want to join and you would agree, as long as she knew the toys were yours.

It didn't seem to bother her to play second in your world. She loved you even though she no longer fit on your lap.  She followed you as you slid down the stairs, listened to your cosmetic tips, watched you with friends (regardless if she was invited) and you enjoyed her as a toy. Her trusting eyes followed you everywhere, to the forbidden sweetie jar or outside the gate or into my make-up case and jewelry box. Each time I caught the two of you, I became cross, so in the future you just sent her, but I figured that one out too. You began to pinch, push, kick her but I saw and I became cross again, and she learned how to pinch, poke and push back, to your dismay.

However, as I put you in time out, in your room or just gave you a pointing, waving finger, your sister protested and you noticed. If there were treats, she wouldn't eat them unless you had some too, When she begged for a toy, she begged for you too. You realised soon that you never left the centre of her universe and I explained that she was and would always be your biggest fan. No matter if friends were "horrible," the universe scraped your knees, or the teacher "told you off", your sister would always step in the line of fire to protect you. Suddenly, her toothy grin made you smile again and you didn't mind her holding you like an overstuffed toy.

So, this morning, when she tries to tickle you relentlessly and you huff loudly or when she wants to match her nail polish colour to yours again, again and again. You roll your eyes,  grunt, but put your fingers forward, saying, "there," because you know that it is a small price to pay for being loved so much by such a tiny thing.  

Cinderella, The Long Story

I leaned against the door
and thought of Friday Harbour,
that table for one when I was 24.
That glass of wine.

When I watched mobiles
sway outside shop windows,
and felt the breeze pass me
to hide in the tall grass.

Then I thought of you
because you would end this
peace by pointing to the ferry
or foraging for pebbles.

Although when we met,
you lay quiet and blue
on my chest. So they took
you away to make you pink.

And your father looked
across to you, while I looked
at him, wiping his eyes
with my hand, we waited.

I turn to that man, deciding
to stay, to make him
another coffee, if I could
remember how he liked it.

Placing it in front of him,
my arm across his,  Feeling
a different memory now
from a different day,

That day in the park, before
we had the courage to speak
of you. That day he spread his
coat for me to rest my head.

It was before mortgage payments
Before leaky pipes and
leaky roofs. Before interrupted
dinners and calorie counting.

Before that fucking gift bag.

He and I simply
intertwined and let
ourselves be warmed
by the sun.

Can I Have This Dance

I remember I was vacuuming or trying to and you were pulling at my trousers or trying to because I kept flagging your hand away with a sort of swiping motion, usually reserved for removing stains. I used the remote to direct away your interest. "Just a minute," I said," Let Mommy finish, just this, just that, just one more thing and then the kitchen."

You didn't realise that I had a sort of schedule,  we sort of ate around this time and sort of cleaned around that time, different activities for different days to fit different forms of development: literacy, social interaction and coordination. Had to get my ticks in before we could take part in frivolous play.

Routines, the unwanted guest, I would rather live in a world of chaotic stress then live with structure.  However it was a lifestyle choice.  One that I often reevaluated and recreated in order to be a good mother. So, as with your father's sports car and my smoking, sporadic trips to faraway places, frivolous shopping and naughty nights out, it all had to go bye byes to create a household and lifestyle that was appropriate for a tiny little miracle like you. In came the white sheets, organic sleep suits, fruit smoothies, mothers clubs, dusted mantles, clean toilets, spotless floors and ironed panties.  I wanted the perfect home for the perfect you. A happy and safe home, but was it?

As you grow, you will be barraged by domestic goddess themes, which subtly impregnate false truths and infect unrealistic expectations.  There will be pictures of women smiling while they scrub toilets and wash floors and you may feel the need to smile back, don't! They are not your friends.  They are paid to lie, run! You will overhear pensioners on buses and trains reminiscing about household pride, joys of cleaning. Well, dear, their memory is shit.  And then, of course, there is that smiling mother of your child's school friend, who wears linen trousers, eats only organic, has stain free cream carpets and an ivory sofa. Open her closets and you will free a cleaning lady.

You are not as old as my favourite jeans, but faded pencil marks on Grandma's wall reminds me that your dynamic form is ever changing and I am missing the performance because I am vacuuming, diligently, heartfelt -back and forth, back and forth.

Days slip by and time goes faster and faster as we grow older and older.  Your infancy was a flash, toddler years a breath and I am so afraid that your little girl years will simply disappear in a moment of distraction.  I understand how you could not prefer my preference for vacuuming over cuddling, wiping stained toilets over puzzle making.  Why should I simply walk to a store when I could be pushing a doll pram, skipping alongside you. You, wearing silk and satin, glitter and velvet gowns.

Interesting how easy it is to touch the Dyson button and hear that annoying buzzing motor mute.  Also, interesting that I could still slide across the laminate floors like Tom Cruise in Risky Business, "Come on join me, little one," I put my hand out to you and you took it and you laughed and so did I, and then we ran around this trying to be perfect home dancing and singing.  It was so much more fun than vacuuming. I danced techno, jumping up and down on the bed.  You went heavy metal, head banging until dizzy, thick curls everywhere.  Then you did a mix up, throwing in an ABBA pose, finding your tiara and yelling "Super duper trooper." We dressed disco with blankets for capes, twirled around, kicking toys out of the way and prancing around in princess dresses to finalise a designer look.

Your father walked in to see us crab shuffling to the bathroom, knees and elbows moving in and out.  He stepped over plastic high heels, moved aside the custom jewellery that cluttered the counter, turned down the screaming radio and we stopped and we turned.  You with drugstore makeup smeared across your face, surprised.  You slid to him in your Peppa Pig socks, brought  your plastic microphone to your tiny mouth, pointed up to him with your other hand "I sekky and know it," and then gave a good Elvis-like shake. I looked at the dirty dishes piled in the sink, grease on the stove top, clean, wrinkled clothes thrown across the table and I stood quiet and smiled. "Have a good day at work, Dear?" Your father smiled, pulled me in and swayed with me as we did at our wedding. We then gathered you to us like a bouquet of flowers. My favourite part of the day.

So, if you want to know why you don't remember Mommy ever having a show home.  Blame yourself, kid. And, thank you because I will always be grateful.