pink pajama mama

Let’s see, Henry and Annabelle found last year’s king cake baby this morning and made a little pond on the high chair tray for him to swim in. Henry flooded the kitchen bya. washing the dishes and pouring the water everywhere, and b. playing in the water filter on the freezer.The housekeeper came and we needed to get out of her way so I took the monkeys to Whole Foods. Everything went fine, except when the cart wouldn’t go and I’d look down and Henry would be trying to climb out of his little car part in the front while the cart was moving. I went to pay and Annabelle said, “Mom, Henry ran off.” This sent me dashing up and down the aisles yelling his name, only to find him on top of a metal cart they use to stock food with a big grin on his face. We came home and I schlepped groceries (and the monkeys) up the two flights of steep stairs and tried to put everything away while keeping an eye on them. I went into the bathroom and what do I find swimming in the toilet? A mardi gras cup and island princess Barbie, courtesy of darling Henry. “Mom!” I hear Annabelle yell, “He’s climbing the mardi gras ladder!” I dash into the sun room and lift him down from his perch. He’s thrilled to be doing something dangerous.He finally goes down for a nap, (relief for an hour!) and when he awakens, I go to change his diaper and he runs from me and climbs on the bed and peepees. This is right after the housekeeper has just changed my sheets! So now I’m doing laundry while Henry insists on washing the dishes and floods the kitchen, yet again.Then, we’re sitting on the couch and I look down and he’s pouring out his sippy cup of milk all over the couch, making a big lake of milk. I run to get a towel and he bats my hand away so I can’t clean it up because he’s so fascinated with splashing in it. FINALLY, we get in the tub, and I look over and, lo and behold, Barbie is back in the toilet.Holy Guacamole!! I need a margarita!!

The first time I met Rufus Wainwright, he was naked. Well, he started out dressed, but it was only a matter of minutes before he was dancing naked in front of our table at a dingy nightclub in LA called The Garage. Let me back up a little.I was out on the town with my girlfriend, Pleasant. She knew Rufus, and I’m not sure how he got it into his head to take off his clothes for us, but he did. He started to strip for us and we encouraged him with cheers and catcalls. I didn’t think he’d really do the full monty as we were in a public place with loads of people around, but I was wrong. He did! And he was wild, flinging his moppish hair around, dancing. He was talking to us later (with his clothes on now) and telling Pleasant how he had done a gig the night before at the Universal Amphitheatre and had gotten kicked out of his hotel room. I naturally assumed he must have been working as a professional stripper. Later, Pleasant told me our stripper’s name was Rufus Wainwright, Loudon’s son, and one of the first acts signed by Dreamworks and he’d been doing a concert at the Universal Amphitheatre the night before. Oh.We went to see him play piano and sing at a tiny little place on Fairfax the following week. He was entrancing. The rawness of his talent, his heartrending voice, he was incredible.A while later, I was having a glass of wine with Pleasant and Kina at La Pubelle when we ran into Rufus again. He invited us (Pleasant, Kina, and I–the GoGo belly dance group) on a walk down Franklin to this incredible old historic building. I’d always wanted to enter this building. We knocked on one of the doors and it was answered by a man with yellow hair and a matching yellow coat with coattails–a kind of marching band coat. His house was a shrine to music. It was wallpapered with classical sheet music. Every nook and cranny was decoupaged with pictures of classical composers. In the middle of the living room was a grand piano complete with lit candelabra. The yellow-haired man flicked out his tails and sat down and played a haunting classical piece for us.Rufus was up next, and he sat down and played for at least an hour, all kinds of incredibly beautiful music. He would occasionally shout out the composer he was playing “Shubert! Debussy! Bach!” but he didn’t stop. He hunched over the piano, his wild hair flying in all directions, his shoulders rocking back and forth. We were swept away by this unexpected ending to our evening out. Kina said, “I want a Rufus! I want to take him out whenever I get bored.” That was one of the last times I saw Rufus. Now I just listen to him.

Annabelle is a piece of work. After lunch I said, “Annabelle, come help clean the kitchen.” She just stared at me like she was seriously thinking. “Annabelle,” I said again, “Come help.” She shook her head and started slowly walking backwards. “I can’t,” she said in her little pixie voice. “The fairies are pulling me out of the room.” I looked behind her.”They’re invisible,” she said, always a step ahead of me. “They’re pulling me.” She took two tiny fingers and pulled on her Hello Kitty underwear as if fairies were really pulling her. I couldn’t help laughing at her walking backwards out of the kitchen with invisible fairies pulling at her.A few minutes later, I walked into her nursery to put her shoes away and decided to try again. She was putting on one of her princess dresses.”Annabelle,” I said, “I need your help cleaning up.”"I can’t right now,” she answered, smoothing her dress. “I have to go to a party. They need me.” And she whisked out of the room.I don’t know where she gets this stuff.  

Yesterday Henry developed a sudden irrational fear of black fuzzy things. It all started when our fabulous neighbor Allison came over wearing Groucho Marx glasses. Henry started to scream as soon as he saw her. It took him a long time to settle down and he kept staring at the pocket she’d put them in. She dropped them in the hallway, and after Henry settled down he tugged on Allison’s hand to show her something in another room. He saw the glasses/moustache set on the ground and started to scream again. He turned and came running back to me, terrified.”It’s ok sweetie!” I said, holding him. A while later, he saw my big black furry coat hanging on the banister. He stared at it and backed against the wall, growling. ”Does that look like a bear?” I asked him. He looked at me and held his arms out, clinging to me, quickly looking over his shoulder at the black fuzzy thing.  He grew so scared of my coat hanging there I had to move it to the closet. Now, I have an irrational fear of the closet. I’m not sure what could be in there. It’s a big long cedar closet and you even have to turn a corner to get to the very back. Perfect hiding place for the most terrifying things imaginable. So I don’t ever go in there. George humors me and he handles anything going on in the closet.George has a completely irrational fear of any small ailment the kids might have, so I humor him when he walks around like a grumpy zombie for days because he can’t shake it. He gets completely cuckoo. And so we all humor the crazy fears of each other. 

Annabelle had a cranky day yesterday. All day she kept saying “I’m feeling honest, Mom. I’m feeling honest.” ”What do you mean by honest?” I asked her.”I’m cranky, I’m tired, I’m hungry, I’m honest!” she said as if she shouldn’t have to explain. ”Do you mean you’re feeling ornery?” I asked.She glared at me. “No! Honest!”"Ok, Ok.” Last week she kept saying she felt “guilty” in the same way.I’m always asking her to entertain Henry while I finish snacks or lunch or pask the stroller. She was having a hard time sharing her fairy doll with him yesterday, and she knows that she has to share with him. I saw her take the doll from him, heard his cry, and then she gave him a cup instead and tapped it on the floor to get his attention.I said, “Annabelle, what are you doing?”"I’m entertarrying him!” she said. Henry’s new favorite thing to do is to vacuum with the handyvac. He walks around the house with it sucking up everything he can find until the charge finally wears out. This morning he vacuumed up Annabelle’s fairy doll’s shoe. Annabelle gasped with dismay. “Mom!! Henry vacuumed up my shoe!” We had to empty the vacuum out, something I”ve never done. Yuck! Henry is very curious and when he saw me get out the handmixer to blend the cupcakes, he dragged a chair over to he could help. He insisted on mixing the batter for more than twenty minutes. He yelled everytime I tried to stop it. The cupcakes turned out completely disgusting. I don’t know if that was from too much mixing or if I did something very wrong. Henry’s next task he assigned himself was washing the dishes. He dragged his chair over to the sink and spent the next twenty minutes playing in the water, splashing so much water onto the floor I used six towels to clean it up.The climax of our day was painting the mardi gras ladder. Cathy and Cynthia came over and we played mardi gras music and painted away. The ladder look so magical now! Covered in glitter, flowers, stars, mermaids, fairies, footprints, handprints, beautiful!! Reminded me of the times I painted my Convertible VW Bug. I painted wings on the fenders, fairy feet running up the back, gnomes dancing in mushroom rings, flowers all over one side, and a big butterfly on the front hood. It was beautiful!The magic continues! 

My mother has an interesting relationship with beauty. She has this amazing olive mexican skin where she doesn’t have a wrinkle at 70 years old. She glows! Even after spending her youth in the sun getting tan. It’s not fair to those of us who inherited our father’s fair freckled English skin. (Although he looks gorgeous at 70 too.) My mother never even wore makeup until I was twelve years old, when she decided to become a Mary Kay consultant. Twenty five years later she’s STILL using Mary Kay and refuses to see any of us in the morning until she “puts her face on.” She’s gotten crazier and crazier withe the makeup.”Marci,” she’ll say to me. “Put on some blush! You’re so pale! You look sick!”Thanks Mom. Even worse, she said to me once, “Marci, why don’t you put a little bit of blush on Annabelle’s cheeks. She’s so pale!” Annabelle was 10 months old. The mere fact that someone would think it acceptable to put makeup on a baby is terrifying to me. Even worse, to suggest it to me, someone who only wears makeup on date night or to perform. Sometimes the things she says are so far out there, they don’t even merit a reply. You’re too stunned to even answer. This was one such occasion.Last time I visited her, she had gotten permanant eyebrows tattooed across her forehead. She called today and said she was putting ice on her eyes every half hour as she had permanent eyeliner put on her eyes. She spent a half hour explaining the whole thing to me, and then said loudly, “I have to look good in my coffin you know!”Mom, you’re so much more beautiful than you could ever know. A little crazy maybe, but always beautiful.  

George called me from work today. “Oh, you just got a box from Brooks Brotehrs,” I told him.”Did you see my Prince of Wales walking coat?” he asked.”What?” I replied.”My Prince of Wales walking coat,” he continued.”What the hell are you talking about?” I asked. ”Did you open the box?” he asked.”No, why? Did you order a Prince of Wales walking coat?” I finally started to understand what he was saying, but I was a little surprised he was asking me since he had just put a moratorium on spending besides groceries and diapers.”Open it.” No one can ever accuse George of no being succinct.I opened it. “Wooo,” I whistled. “Very hot. A houndstooth plaid lined in chocolate. Very gorgeous.” It better be with a $600 price tag. My man of “simple tastes,” or so he’s always telling me.”Do you like it?” he asks in his husky sexy voice.”I love it. I can just picture you walking, no loping over the moors wearing it, your hounds by your side. You just need some knee high wellies to go with it.”George is kind of like a gay man in a straight man’s body. He loves fine wine, intellectual discussions of said wine, high art, Hermes loafers that look like ballet slippers, and Louis Vuitton duffel bags. Sometimes I worry he’s going to come out of the closet, but sexually, he seems quite straight to me. At least so far. But there’s no denying. He’s a fop, a dandy, a fashion lover who has nailed down the incredibly sexy absent minded professor look (albeit in Hugo Boss suits ala Cary Grant in North by Northwest). Even when he’s dressed casually dressed in his slouchy but perfectly fitted sweaters and jeans, he looks perfectly turned out.”Why do you always look so perfect?” I ask him from the realm of not having combed my hair for a few days in my pink sweats stained with oatmeal from Henry’s breakfast, mud smeared across my chest from carrying babies with dirty hands.”I have perfected my look of casual insouciance,” he tells me. Even his wild unruly mussed hair looks perfect.I sigh. With exasperation, with despair, with amusement, and always, always, with desire. 

I’m swear on my life I have Reverse Anorexia. I feel absolutely fabulous. I feel toned, sexy, energetic, great! And then…I step on the scale and I’m about 30 pounds overweight, 30 pounds heavier than before I had Henry, 30 damn pounds of love and love handles and juicy curves. I was talking to my girlfriend, Courtney today. She is living the great Alaskan adventure up in Juneau. She said she has the same problem, and that we just need to live back in Victorian times when super curvy bodies like ours were all the rage. I said, actually, I need to live back in prehistoric France when muffin top bellies and huge pendulum breasts were the epitome of beauty. Think Venus De Willendorf. It seems my greatest stress reliever is baking chocolate chip cookies, no small part of which is eating the dough. The perfect piece of dough is one that has been places on a hot cookie sheet, the chocolate is melted inside the little ball of dough, heaven awaits. Yes!! A tiny river of chocolate!! I love everything about baking–the smell evokes everything warm and delicious, I love the warmth of the stove, I love, of course, the dough! It’s an unmatchable sensory experience, AND I can do it with the kids. They help me measure the ingredients(most of which end up on the floor), we watch the cookies melt in the oven, and of course, warm cookies and milk?? Can anyone top that? I’ve become such a connoisseur of fresh cookies that if they’re more than three hours old, I can taste it and won’t both eating them.Suffice to say, I LOVE baking cookies.Now, here’s the rub. Henry has had trouble sleeping since day one. I’ve been baking cookies and eating the dough since day one. The past week, I was unable to bake as I was too busy pureeing vegetables for my new recipes in the Seinfeld cookbook. And coincidentally, Henry slept like a baby all week. When, on Sunday, I finally got to bake, he he woke up again and we had a loong night. Coincidence?? I hope so! I can’t imagine time without my dough! My cookie baking!! It’s a bit depressing actually! I’m trying some time without baking and then I’ll give it another go and see how he sleeps. But maybe, just maybe, this has something to do with my Pillbury Dough Girl body and now I can get back to my former self. Who knows? ANd really who cares?I’ve replaced the stress reliever of baking with knitting tiny sheep. It’s a bit bizarre, I know, but I’ve started knitting these little sheep nearly every night. It’s SO gratifying. Starting with a gorgeous ball of yarn, delicious colors, divine textures, and a few turns of my bamboo needles and voila! A sheep!! I think I’m going through a shepherd phase. I feel a compulsive need to be the uber caring mama–shepherdess, baker, dance instructor, singer, storyteller, warm, nurturing, protecting my little sheep, herding them here and there, all with love. Annabelle loves the lullaby “Tender Shepherd” from Peter Pan. She sings it so beautifully, right on key. And here I sit, making yet another soft fuzzy sheep. 

All morning Annabelle kept singing “honky tonky way” over and over. It sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place where she might have heard these words. She pulled out all our party bowls and cups and laid them out on the table. ”Mom! I’m having a honky tonky way party. Which bowl would you like?”"I’ll have that one,” I said arbitrarily pointing to one. She bit her lip and slowly shook her head.  ”No, you can’t have that one. That’s Annika’s.” Annika is Annabelle’s imaginary sister who lives in California but is able to time travel and instantly appear places. We worked out which bowl I could eat from for the party so everyone was satisfied. She kept singing and it finally occurred to me that the words “honky tonky way” are part of the Aba Daba Honeymoon song. “Sing, and swinging, in a honky tonky way.”Ahh that makes sense. That’s one of her favorite dance songs.A little later she belted out “Good Morning Baltimore.” I looked at her in disbelief. She smiled at me. “Where did you hear that song?” I asked. ”Cynthia sang it to me,” she said. (Cynthia is our fantastic babysitter.) “Baltimore is a city.” She continued to belt. She has an amazing ear for melodies, and we watched part of Hairspray later on to her great delight. She studied the screen and copied all the dance moves. Henry watched her and copied her. Together, they were learning whole choreographies.Later, we went to play with our little neighbors who were already playing “bear.” Three year old Maggie was the baby bear and had made a bed in kitchen cupboard. She said Annabelle could be a bear too. Maggie went to the river to catch a fish with her giant bear paws and tried to give it to Annabelle who refused it. ”I don’t want to eat a fish,” Annabelle said, wrinkling her nose. “I’d rather eat rose petals!” ”You could be a panda bear and eat bamboo shoots,” I offered. She nodded her assent. It’s the vegetarian in her I suppose.She ended up fighting with Maggie’s five year old brother George. George wanted her to be a policeman or go to jail. Annabelle wanted to be a mommy pushing her stroller and wanted him to be a father gone to work. They reached an impasse and we left hearing George wailing behind us. “Annabelle, a good idea would be to find something you and George could both play together.”"But I didn’t want to be a police,” she said. “I wanted to be a princess mother.” “You can be that, but you have to find something George would want to be, maybe a firefighter who protects your baby.”"Or a boy cheerleader!” She said happily.Yes, or a boy cheerleader. Sheering for his princess mother no doubt. A diva in the making. I really have tried to turn both of us into tomboys, but it hasn’t worked. Truth be told, I love shopping and frappucinos and anything fluffy and pink. As a child, though, I climbed trees and played in the mud and rolled in the sand and built treehouses and picked up snakes and bugs. I want that for Annabelle. Nothing makes me happier than when we come home filthy and muddy. Annabelle, though, has her own ideas. She hated to get her hands dirty and can’t bear to have a spot of anything on her clothes. She will only consent to wearing clothing when we leave the house. At home, she wears only her underwear, but she does love to try on anything and everything. The other night, she pulled every shirt out of my drawer and put it on. She had on probably twenty tank tops (I didn’t even know I had that many shirts!). She tried to walk around the house in them. She’s a three-year-old fashionista. She loves talking about outfits and what might make her outfits even cuter (black velvet gloves, black shiny mary janes, a pink boa, etc.) And more than anything else, I want her to be exactly who she is.

Annabelle found this little stuffed creature at the airport. It has big eyes and a long tail. She begged me to buy it for her, and since I find it very hard to refuse her every wish, she was soon cuddling it in her little arms, cooing at it and making it a bed our of her pink satin baseball cap. She showed it to George and he said, “Oh, it’s a bandicoot.” She nodded. “Yes, a bandicoot.”She took the little creature with her everywhere in the airport–turning the luggage scale into a stage, she, Henry, and the bandicoot danced up a  storm. They were swinging around a pole during boarding when a kindly old lady said, “Oh, what do you have there? An Owl?” ”No, it’s a bandicoot!” Annabelle replied, jumping up and down, her little charge in her arms. She was asked at least six times by various people on the plane about her owl. Each time she corrected them and told them it was a bandicoot. “Where does a bandicoot come from?” asked one curious little boy sitting behind us. Annabelle repeated the question to George while climbing all over her seat like a monkey. “Australia,” he replied. “Australia!” she repeated to the little boy, one leg draped over his side of the seat. “My feet stink,” she then told him, waving her tiny pink foot in front of his face. “Well, don’t touch me with it!” he shouted. She giggled and pulled her toes to her nose.”Annabelle,” I said, finally getting involved in the conversation, “sit back in your seat like a lady.” These are words I never thought I’d hear out of my mouth. I used to hate it when my mother said it to me. It seemed ladies never got to do anything fun. I never wanted to be a lady. Annabelle already has a reply at three years old. “I’m not a lady, I’m a little girl.” And a bandicoot wrangler to boot. She’s curled up in bed with the bandicoot nestled safely against her cheek.