pink pajama mama

Henry woke up two days ago with his eye swollen shut. It looked like a golf ball was under his eyelid. George stayed with Annabelle and I took him to the ER at Children’s. He puttered around in great spirits, held still to get his blood pressure taken and his heart listened to. It turned out to be a bug bite that swelled. I’ve never seen anything like it. But even knowing that, everytime I looked at him, my heart broke. To see your child in any kind of discomfort is so hard.

The hospital reminded me of many of the sick children I worked with for 9 years at a residential shelter in LA for children with AIDS. Flashes of memories kept coming up; a wrist as small as my thumb, singing to a child in the last stages who had lost mobility and could no longer see, holding a child as pain washed over her face, holding my hand over the heart of a child in the last stages who didn’t make it through the night.

And I watched Henry with his swollen eye pushing the tall metal tower on wheels for IV bags around the room, and I thought how lucky I am, how lucky we are. Is it random chance that decides which child will be healthy and which child will suffer? Or is it something else?

It’s too devastating to even think about.

We went to Maple Street bookstore tonight and their new motto is “Love Among the Ruins,” a fitting motto for anyone living in New Orleans at this time. It’s a little local bookstore, a booklovers paradise, exactly what you’d imagine if you thought of a dusty old bookshop from a mystery novel or a curiosity shop. Dirty, tattered, charming, and filled with books!

I just finished reading The Moviegoer by Walker Percy, who also wrote Love Among the Ruins. Apparently Mr. Percy was a devoted customer of Maple Street bookstore, and I heard a lot about him from Dr. Robert Coles, my writing professor at Harvard, a living legend, a soft-spoken brilliant man who worked on books with Walker Percy, Dr. Coles as writer, Mr. Percy as photographer. I loved The Moviegoer. It raised some wonderful and profound points, my favorite being that while the majority of Americans believe in God and a very small percentage are atheist or agnostic, there is no category for the seekers who are searching for the sacred, the great spirit known to many as God.

Coming from a huge tightknit Mormon family from Utah, I get asked often by nieces and nephews about my relationship with God, Jesus, church, etc. I never know what to say except “I believe in fairies.” But I’ve found my answer in The Moviegoer. I’m a seeker, on a (most likely) neverending search for God. Any faith I may have had hanging onto my soul in tiny tatters was torn away two years ago with the hurricane. I’m still shook up. I didn’t realize just how shook up until George asked me to fill the car up the other day in case of evacuation. My visceral reaction was nausea, shaking, tears. I weathered through, pushed it away, but I’m still stunned. The heartbreaking stories, this magical city that was holding on by a thread, it’s overwhelming.

And so I’ll continue to seek, to search for the sacred. Because I think how could there possibly be a God when there are hurricanes; but then I hold my babies, or see fireflies lighting up the woods around our Vineyard like starlight dancing in the trees, and I think, how could there not be?

This morning I wanted to weep. It was just a moment, a snapshot. Henry was toddling around the bedroom looking for mischief in his diaper and blue Martha’s Vineyard t-shirt, his wild curls sticking out the back of his head, and Annabelle was jumping on the bed next to me in her purple tinkerbell underwear. It was such a perfect moment and I didn’t want it to end.

I want to preserve them here, at these ages, forever, hold the moment, put it in a jar that I can take out whenever I need to see a pudgy baby hand blowing kisses, feel soft toddler cheeks rubbing against mine, feel tiny round arms surround my neck, feel a sleepy sweet-smelling head on my shoulder, smell maple syrup and cookies while I get butterfy kisses, hear a belly laugh…

Oh these moments… they’re going to grow, and I know we’ll have more moments, but oh how I love this beautiful world, this baby world of the sweetest softest whisper of magic intermixed with rollicking wild laughter and fun.

Which brings me to tonight. After a back-breaking bath with a fussy baby and a demanding toddler; after a trip to the bookstore involving a lot of high-pitched screams and shouting; after they both get into my eyeliner and have such a good time with it that no amount of scrubbing will help; after red painted handprints end up on my white ottoman and smeared across my doorways; after the bone weariness sets in and I’m almost too tired to take my 10pm shower; Henry lies next to me in bed, hanging onto tiny pink toes encased in Annabelle’s polka dotted socks that he insists on wearing. He looks at me with big baby eyes and tells me a very dramatic story complete with intonations, inflections, laughter and hand gestures, all in his googoo baby talk, and I am filled with only the most heart-swelling love.

Ah, motherhood.

Ahhhh, we went to eat at Babylon Cafe on Maple Street tonight and I took one bite of the rice and labneh and instant intoxication. A flood of sense memories came rushing at me: so many years of being steeped in the best parts of Middle Eastern culture, the celebrations! Weddings, birthdays, Bar and Bat Mitzvahs, I even danced at a Briss (circumcision) and at a hospital for a man on his deathbed. I’ve danced for Saudi royalty, dignitaries, and lot’s of famous artists. I liked to consider myself a priestess of sacred moments. I felt so honored to be a part of everyone’s most important days. And I got to be the fun part. The part that got the party going.

Belly dancing, with all it’s beauty, glory, sensuality, empowerment, fun, spirituality, I could go on and on.

Is there anything more wonderful than making your living being the life of the party? From the moment I started performing belly dance, I never had to work another job. Middle Eastern dance supported me for more than ten years, as well as educating me about other cultures. I remember standing on a table in a Persian restaurant when I first started dancing and thinking to myself, “You’ve come a long way from Utah, Baby!”

It could be considered bizarre how the Middle Eastern world makes me feel. In all my worldly travels, Egypt made me feel the safest. I remember riding a camel at the Pyramids of Giza and thinking how comfortable it felt, how right. Me, Marci, at home riding a camel in the desert in the rain!?!??! Could I have been Cleopatra in a past life? Perhaps.

If the shoe fits… In this case, a bejeweled shoe, perhaps covered in rubies with a golden upturned toe, like genie slippers…Ah yes, and a beautiful handmaiden feeing me grape leaves while I lie in a rose petal bath.

I awakened completely furious with George after my third night of no sleep due to Henry and no help from my significant other. For the second time in three years, I put the pillow over my head and didn’t get up with the monkeys at the break of dawn, hoping George would take the hint and give me a break.

I heard him say, “Henry, don’t play with that.” I knew Henry had gotten a hold of the alarm clock with the hanging face and exposed wires. I also knew Henry wasn’t listening as he doesn’t understand what “don’t play with that means.”(Or maybe he does and just ignores us.)
In a fit of sleep-deprived fury, I lifted my head, took the alarm clock and threw it across the room. I then launched into a tirade that sounded something like this:
“You can’t just say don’t play with that and then do nothing! You have to get up and do something. I can’t do this twenty four hours a day with no help… blah blah blah.”
His response was, “I was up all night too. I’m tired too. blahblahblah…”
“What were you doing up all night? Lying there being no help? blahblahblah…”

A few minutes later I was up and cooking chocolate chip pancakes for the boos and George came in to give “goodbye I love you” kisses to us. I thought he’d skip me after the morning’s craziness, but he came to me, kissed me on the forehead, and pressed his lips against my ear. “I love you,” he said in that deep booming voice that just melts me every time. Add the buzz of his lips against my ear and my knees buckled, my body covered in goose bumps, (boose gumps as Annabelle says) and I shrieked with laughter. When he saw my reaction, he did it again, causing an even more extreme bout of laughter. Over and over, he dissolved my anger with laughter.
Completely brilliant.

Some of you may be wondering why I write so much about fairies.
That would be because I have fairy blood.

That might seem crazy but it’s true.

First of all, I’ve always suspected there was magic running through my veins, so I was hardly surprised when I found out I actually was a descendant of the fairies. I performed as Peasblossom in Midsummer Night’s Dream at the Globe in LA and I met some wonderful people and most importantly, my best friend, Kim. So there, the fairy magic started.

A few years later, Kim and I went to Scotland. We researched my family tree and found out my ancestors had a castle on the Isle of Skye. We visited the castle and on the wall was a huge frame encasing a very tattered piece of middle eastern silk from the 4th century. I asked the little old lady about the piece. She said it was called the “Fairy Flag” and it had protected the clan for centuries. She said in the old days, the clan carried the flag into battle, and even in the last world war, clan members carried pictures of it as protection.

Legend has it the flag was sewn and imbued with protective magic by a real fairy. Many moons ago, one of the chiefs of the clan fell in love with and married a fairy. They had a fairy baby that was spirited away by the other fairies. To this day, they say, the fairies dance on the bridge at night.

This all made so much sense to me. I stared at the tattered and torn piece of ivory silk, mended many times over with thick red thread. I wondered about the hands that had made it, and the hands that had carried it in battle. Were they scared, or confident? Were they shaking, sweaty, peaceful, powerful? And what was the person wearing? What did they look like? Smell like? What sounds did they awaken to every morning? How did they like the long Scottish winters in a drafty castle?

I love letting my imagination run away with me. History is one of my favorite subjects. I roamed the halls of that castle, hoping to see an old portrait of one of my ancestors flaunting their shimmering wings.

Alas, no such luck. But I have to say, I have owned many a pair of fairy wings over the years, and they have brought a lot of joy to the children I work with. They are totally tickled by the sight of a grown woman coming to teach them dance wearing a tutu and fairy wings. “Ah, one of us,” they think, and if nothing else, they know they can be as foolish as they wish and I’ll jump right in and be foolish too.

As the old proverb says, “We are fools whether we dance or not, so we may as well dance.”
Even better if we wear fairy wings while we do it.

Well, they were totally delighted by the treasures brought by the Fairies. We played for hours with the silks and wools and animals and fairies. Henry tried to climb into the silk hammock designed for a much lighter stuffed fairy, but other than that, (and the fact that a bike fell over right on his forehead and I caught him standing up, teetering really, on the tiny grand piano in the sun room), we had a great day.

We made New Orleans red beans–vegetarian of course– and they turned out heavenly. I’m going through a hot sauce phase-I can’t get enough. And we baked chocolate chip oatmeal cookies for Opal’s birthday party.

It was actually one of those days when the minutes seem like hours. I thought it must be close to bedtime and it was noon. One of those days.

Opal, the birthday girl turning 3, was feeling fragile. She stayed close to her mother until Annabelle said, “Opal, do you want to take my hand? I’ll keep you safe.” Opal did, and it was a beautiful thing to see them walking hand-in-hand.

They’re amazing, these tiny children. Their personalities and energies are so huge, it’s hard to remember how little they are. But Annabelle reminds me. “Mom, I’m a little kid. And sometimes little kids don’t want to… go to school, wash their hair, get dressed, etc.” I’m amazed at the things she says, especially when I don’t know where she gets it from.

I’m also shaking with weariness from chasing Henry Houdini all day. But even completely exhuasted, there’s nothing I love more than pressing my lips against his soft broad forehead, inhaling his baby scent. And when he puts his little pudgy arms around my neck and lays his head on my shoulder, there’s nowhere else in the world I’d rather be.

It’s Autumn Equinox Eve. Time for balance, baking, warmth, cinnamon, apples, love, and magic.
“Annabelle,” I say, “the fairies might bring you something tonight for Autumn Equinox.”
Her face lights up. “I’m going to call them on my phone and ask them!” she says. She has a pink maribou feather phone, basically a fairy hotline. She can talk to the fairy queen anytime, day or night.
And the fairies are coming, bringing treasures to Annabelle’s fairy house. A stuffed squirrel, a handmade Autumn fairy doll, wool and silks and magic, all in luscious autumn colors: red, gold, orange.

George came home this late afternoon and I was sitting in the kitchen holding Mr. Mischief on my lap, talking to Annabelle. I was on the verge of tears. “What’s the matter?” he asked me.
“Henry fell out of the refrigerator,” I replied.
George looked confused. “What was he doing in the refrigerator?”
“He likes to climb up and stand on the lower ledge. He was standing there and he slipped and knocked his nose and forehead and cheek in the exact spot where his scabs are healing from the faceplant he took on the bricks two days ago. Then he fell backwards and knocked the back of his head.”

Today was a doozy.

I opened the dishwasher door and Henry, quick as lightning, stuck one little finger in the goopy soap and licked it before I could stop him. He threw my phone away and I didn’t notice until I heard it ringing in the bottom of the kitchen trash and I had to dig it out.

I made the grave error of going to the Maple Street Bookstore and Toy store thinking the booboos would enjoy these places. I should have known it was a bad sign when the children’s section of the bookstore threw me attitude when I asked them for Skippyjon Jones, a story about a siamese cat who dreams of being a chihuahua. The proprietor stated she finds that book “annoying.” OK.
Then I went to the grown-up section and there was an author’s book signing of some very serious post-katrina book. I was in a rush as the kids were ready to go. “Do you have a book called The Starter Wife?” I asked. The clerk glared at me as if I had just asked for m&m’s in a health food store. “No!” she said with obvious digust. The otehr clerk offered to order it for me. While she did this, I tried to make conversation. “I need a good book to read.” I turned around with Henry squirming in my arms and there sat the author doing the signing. What could I do? “What’s your book about? May I look?” “Of course he says. “I”ll take it!” I say, trying to redeem myself. And I threw in the Moviegoer by Walker Percy s it was sitting right in front of me and I’ve always wanted to read it. (It’s great by the way!) I wasn’t planning on spending $50 on books, so I felt sick. The writer continued his very serious discussion with the nasty clerk. Henry took this opportunity to put my movie star sunglasses on upside down and stare a the writer with the kind of look he gets when he wants to be admired or laughed at and he’s not going to put up with being ignored. I couldn’t help laughing, the nice clerk was laughing, and when I left the store, I felt like I was surfing out on a big wave.

What the hell people?! I’m just trying have somethign good to read.

It was unbearably hot. We proceeded to the toy store where I tried to pick out a birthday gift for a three year old I barely know and tried to keep track of the munchkins. Henry wheeled a pink stroller over by the front door and tried to escape everytime a customer entered or left. The trip culminated in Annabelle sitting on the floor screaming “I’m so sorry mom, but I just want everything that looks so cute!” I can relate. I do too. But at this point, we came home after spending $100 more than intended, and then Henry fell out of the fridge…you get the idea.

It was a bad day.

But turned into a delightful evening when George and I went out for a fantastic dinner and actually could have a conversation. I got to wear my new Jackie O. shoes and actually comb my hair adn waer a pretty dress without having oatmeal dripping down the front. (I spilled a little vegetarian lasagna down the front, but that’s a different matter.)

Mr. Mischief has been hard at work today. For months he’s been trying his hardest to get the toilet scrub brush. I’ve chased him away from it countless times and finally hid it under the sink. Well, he got it.
“Mom!” Annabelle yelled to me. “He’s got the toilet brush!” I came out of the kitchen and sure enough, he was running down the hall brandishing the brush like a sword, completely delighted with his victory. I chased him and wrestled it out of his hands.
A few minutes later, I hear what every mother of a toddler longs for and is terrified of: silence. “What is he doing?” I say to myself as I start to look for him. When I hear the gentle sound of splashing, I start to run.
It’s Mr. Mischief alright, and this time he’s taken the portable potty apart, has managed to life the lid of the big potty, and is trying to stuff the smaller one into the bigger one with pretty good success.

Annabelle responds with her classic big sister response to his endless mischief: she slowly shakes her head. This is her response when we watch him spit his mouthfuls of food down his chest; when he shouts while standing on the wet wipe box in his co-sleeper, triumphant, like the first man on the moon; when he slips on the hardwood floors because he insists on wearing George’s socks around and no shoes.

Annabelle just shakes her head.

Minutes pass and I change his diaper. I decide to let him air out for a few minutes and next thing I know, he sits down on Annabelle’s pink satin princess chair and promptly pees. She’s had this chair for two years and kept it in pristine condition. A few months with Henry, and it’s smeared with chocolate and urine. I scrub the chair, and a few minutes later, he’s shaking chocolate milk all over my white chair. I then scrub that chair and we go to the store. I am feeling a bit stressed and frustrated. Annabelle refuses to go to preschool yet another day, and as we pass an old cemetery, all my stress lifts and I think of my favorite mantra, “Who cares?” Honestly, am I going to lie on my deathbed and wish I’d been more strict and forced Annabelle to go to preschool at three years old? I know I’m a pushover, but I just don’t see the point of forcing the matter. And really, we’ll have plenty of years of making her go to school when she doesn’t want to. Why start when she’s three?

When we return, Mr. Mischief sits down on our tiny tuft of New Orleans grass to eat his cookie. Upon rising, he starrts to run and falls on the bricks and scratches up his entire face. I feel so bad. If I could take all those scrapes away and put them on my own face I would.

A little later, we walk to State street to pass out cookies to sick friends. Henry pushes the stroller the whole way, over sidewalks and curbs, and before I can blink, he is splashing in the fountain in front of my girlfriend’s house. The next friend we visit, he climbs on her gate and tries to play with the chain. The dirtier and more dangerous the object, the more he is attracted to it. They seem to have the same reaction as Annabelle, they shake their heads. But they also laugh. And so do I, admittedly a bit maniacally, but nevertheless, we’re all laughing.

Ah, Mr. Mischief. So hard at work.