pink pajama mama

Well, little Miss Three-Year-Old Diva just came home from the drugstore with Grandma and Grandpa complete with a new crown, earrings, a ring, a necklace, and a bunny. She has gone from mirror to mirror around the house admiring her swinging earrings and holding her dance poses. She looks at me, grins, and says “I’m obsessed with my hair.” She has heard me saying this about her to my sisters. (At least she’s not stomping around saying “Holy Hell!” like she did yesterday when she heard me swear as Henry almost fell off the trampoline, or saying “Damn it!” one of her favorite phrases she says she learned from Daddy, or talking about circumcision after hearing a heated discussion between my father and me.)

My 18-year-old niece, Janessa, started this hair obsession when she came to help babysit this summer on the Vineyard for a month. Janessa had two sets of long extensions and spent an inordinate amount of time blow-drying, straightening, curling, and in general, playing with her hair. On the positive side, this new hair obsession made Annabelle want to wash her hair. Prior to this, she hated washing her hair and it was a battle in the bathtub. After my niece came, all of a sudden Annabelle wanted to wash her hair three times a day.

Now, we’re staying with the grandparents, who are shockingly, also obsessed with their hair. Yesterday morning, Annabelle got up and took one look at her wild toddler curls in the mirror. She made a face and turned around, standing on her tiny stool, now brushing her teeth backwards. “Can Grandpa put gel in my hair,” she asked in desperation. “Sure,” I answer. Go ask him. Next thing I know, Grandma is opening the door to the bathroom and announcing, “The beauty parlor is open!” Annabelle and Henry troop through the door to get their hair slicked. “Grandpa,” Annabelle says, “You have more gel than hair!” He howls with laughter.
She runs into me so I can admire her hair. “Pretty,” I say. She starts to dance and then cuddles up to me. “I’m cold,” she says. Her eyes grow wide. “Now look what I have,” she whispers, “boose gumps!”

We had so many perfect days on Martha’s Vineyard this summer. So many moments of watching Henry stand on his head looking through h is chubby little legs for a new view, watching Annabelle play mermaid, watching George swim while holding both kids in his arms, watching the fog roll out, the magic hour purple roll in, the sailboats float in the mist, waling barefoot through the woods on teh powdery white sand, flowers dripping in the trees, telling Annabelle stories of Bigfoot and Fairies, the reflection of the sunlight on the water making the air sparkle–so much magic, so much joy. So many moments of me thinking this is it, this must be what heaven is like, at least this is heaven to me.

When I lived in Hollywood, I liked to claim my true heritage and go by the name Priness Marcella DeLaLuna. My great grandmother on my mother’s side was a Mayan Indian princess and I have a fairy ancestor from Scotland on my father’s side, making me a true fairy princess. My friends also chose royal names–Pleasant was Princess Farhana (and wrote a book of poetry called Princess of Hollywood) and Valerie was the Countess and my best friend and partner-in-crimem Kim, was the Empress.
One evening our worlds clashed. I went to the grungy video store on Sunset Blvd to rent a movie. The large cashier with the wire glasses knew me from my frequent visits.
“Kim’s account, right?” he said, typing into his computer.
This perplexed me.
“No she’s not.” I said.
He glanced at me and enunciated further. “Kim’s account, right?”
“No, Kim’s not a count,” I answered, unable to understand why he was calling Kim a count. Even if she was of count lineage she would be called a countess, not a count. Thhis guy was nuts.
He slowed down further, staring aat me, the line behind me watching the exchange with interest now. “Kim’s account…”
I laughed. “No, no no, Kim’s not a count. Kim’s the Empress, I’m the princess, there is no count.”
he stared at me. “Please don’t do this to me. I’ve been working since this morning. Kim’s account.”
“Kim’s not a count.”
He buried his head in his hands.
All of a sudden, it all clicked.
“Ahhh, Kim’s account!” I said, it all becoming clear. I clapped my hand over my mouth and tears came to my eyes. “Yes, Kim’s account.”
He shook his head, filled out the form, and I signed. The line of people behind me seemed awestruck.
“Valerie’s a countess,” I said as I walked out the door, unable to let it go.

Underneath the crest of Harvard there is one word: veritas. I could guess it’s meaning, but I wanted to know it’s exact definition. I asked George. No one loves a good word more than George. He dropped out of Brown one course shy of receiving his Master’s in Literature, completing it years later. He adores unusual words, walking through the jungle of wild words, and give him a new word he can use in everyday conversation that befuddles people but is used correctly, he’s in heaven. “I think it means truth,” he said.
I could see the wheels in his head turning.
The next day I asked him his thoughts on my sister coming to visit.
“The veritas of the situation is that it would be great if she came out.”
I let it slide because I”m starry-eyed in love with him.
But when he tried to use it again to me later in the day, I couldn’t let it happen.
“Sweetie, how amazing would it be if we had a female president?”
“The veritas…”
I slowly turn my head to look at him. I could see the inexpressible joy under his features at using such a word.
“Sweetie, you can’t use the word veritas to me twice in the same day. I’m the one who brought the word to you, I know where you got it, you can’t just incorporate an ancient latin word into your eveyday speech.
He laughed. We both laughed.
And I’m sad to say, he hasn’t used it since.

To be totally honest, I don’t really like Star Wars. In fact, I’ve never even seen it. Robots and light sabers not being very appealing to me. George however, loves it. And he has taken great delight in putting a photo of the main character on my cell phone-C3PO, R2D2, Princess Leia, Chewbacca, Luke–you get the idea. On top of that, he turned my phone ring into the sound of shooting asteroids, promptly followed by C3PO shouting something about being attacked by asteroids. People were terrified every time my phone rang in public. Not being technologically savvy, I was stuck with this horror, and it so delighted George every time he looked at my phone, I kept it for more than a year. After much begging, he finally changed it–into a photo of a hideous monster named Darth Mal. Annabelle and I were more than horrified. After having nightmares about it, George finally changed it. Now my screen has a photo of George and the babies, and my ring sounds like fairy dance music. Much nicer. But George is still laughing about it. I can only say, that it brought up terrible memories for me of third grade when Laura Sudweeks would fix her hair in bun braids every day and get to be Princess Leia at recess while I was relegated to stormtrooper. I don’t think so. Me, pink princess, told to be a stormtrooper. And all because her mother fixed her damn hair like Princess Leia’s every day. Life is so unfair sometimes.

At fourteen months, Henry is almost done nursing. It’s bittersweet for me. I’m elated to buy beautiful lingerie again. I will be burning my terrifying nursing bras I’ve been wearing for three years straight now! I’m excited to have my very own breasts again. And I’m sad to have this most beautiful and sacred time with him come to a close. So, as we walked along the sea yesterday, he wanted to nurse. I sat down on the warm sand, the waves gently lapping my legs, the sun warming my back, and fed him. The ratio of salt to water in the ocean is almost identical to amniotic fluid. I felt so connected to something bigger than me, something ancient and beautiful, sacred and staggering. Just a moment, a moment I will always remember, and always cherish.

Ah yes. Another dinner with the inlaws. Our stoned waiter with waist-length dreadlocks kept tripping over chairs, Grantine (she will NOT be called Grandma!) lit her napkin on fire, put out by GW (he will NOT be called Grandpa!), burning a hole right through the center. Annabelle got angry and threw her bread at me. Henry, who is always studying Annabelle for social cues (Monkey See-Monkey Do), promptly threw his wooden toy at me. With the perfect aim of a one-year-old Babe Ruth in training, it landed right in my coconut red bean soup, splashing warm liquid all over me. Thank goodness I was wearing red! I couldn’t stop laughing, the food was delicious (Anguillan food!) and overall, it was a fantastic dinner.

sprinklers provide hours of entertainment.