My nieces Original and Baby Banshee, in happier times.
Like yesterday before, you know, the earth tried to swallow us all.
a repeat: “make me feel good”
Because MB was asking for this post from a few years ago and because I’m lazy. It’s about the horror of babysitting a then 2-year-old Original Banshee. I think I still have PTSD from this one single day. That’s possible, right?
***********
“Make Me Feel Good”
Our niece Button Baby — or Banshee Baby, as I like to call her now — is 2 1/2 and there are some seriously unappealing personal issues going on with her. I babysat her a few Saturdays ago and, frankly, I am still traumatized.
It all started while she was eating her dinner. She sat there, playing with her cup straw, waving it around, shoving the straw in and out, spilling milk, doing anything but drinking milk.
Ohhhh, no. Tee Tee don’t play that, Crackie.
“Button, you may drink it or not drink it. You may not play with it. I will take it away if you keep playing with it.”
She understands me quite well. She continues playing, spilling.
Second warning.
“Last chance, Button. I will take it away if you do it again.”
She continues.
“All right, Button. I’m sorry. I think you’re done with that.”
I take it away from her and she begins to waaaaiillll literally like a banshee. It is horrible. God-awful. The tone of it — the tone. It is a shiv gouging my eardrums. I wait for the spurt of blood signifying my head has exploded.
“NONONONONONOOOOONONONOOOOOOOONONONO!”
I hold my ground, put the cup in the sink. She is howling at me, hating me with her entire shaking little being.
I come back to the table, sit down.
“I’m sorry, Button. I told you what would happen.”
“NONONONONONONOOOOONOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!”
A pause while she actually breathes and hiccups and then discovers heretofore untapped reserves of terrible. Her tone becomes desperate, like she needs a drink or a smoke or some crack.
“I NEED A WIPE! I NEEEEEED A WIIIIIIIIIIIIPE!!”
Um, what?
“I NEEEED A WIIIIIPE ‘CAUSE I’M CRYING!!! TEEEEE TEEEEEEEEE!!!”
I grab a napkin. Dab her cheeks, her eyes. I keep my movements even, unhurried. At this moment, I am her polar opposite. A goddess of calm confronted with a yowling demon.
But …… hullo. What’s this? This itchy feeling I’m having?
Yeah. What IS that?
Why, that’s just the palm of my Spankin’ Hand, itchin’ and twitchin’ and beggin’ me to use it!
Oh, I feel it, but I ignore it. I don’t spank my nieces and nephews, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t ever wanted to, like now. I make my voice smooth, but somewhat cool.
Goddess of calm:
“There you go, Button. I’m sorry you’re upset.”
“NONONONONONOOOOOOOOOOO!! THAT’S NOT A WIIIPE!! IT’S NOT A WIIIPE!! I NEEED A SPECIAL WIIIIIPE!!!
Huh?
A “special wipe”? What in tarnation is a “special wipe”? Who made her think there’s such a thing as a “special wipe”? I begin to question my brother’s parenting, start to inventory all the ways he bugs me. This could be one of them. Meanwhile, she is still flailing and screaming.
Sheesh. Look, Banshee, the fact that I’m wiping you at all during this gross unravelling of your entire personality is special enough.
I use the sleeve of my hoodie. I mean, it’s soft, right? And special enough. Cotton is comfort, you know. The fabric of our lives and all. Dab, dab, dabbity-dabb.
She cracks apart with renewed vigor.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!”
Well, that’s it. I have broken my niece. She is, quite simply, ruined. Maybe ruined forever — all because of my cotton sleeved hoodie.
Goddess of calm, Trace. Goddess of calm.
“All right, Button. Let’s get you down from your chair. I don’t know what a special wipe is. Why don’t you get down and show me?”
As I reach to lift her out, she declares, insane with blubbing:
“IF MOMMY AND DADDY WERE HERE, THEY WOULD HOL’ ME AND GIMME A SPECIAL WIPE AND THEY WOULD MAKE ME FEEL GOOOOOD!!!”
Oh, no, she dihn’t. Ohhh, no. I am agape. I understand that she’s 2 and all, but that, right there, that thing she said — it’s everything that’s wrong with the world and it came from the mouth of a baby: “I have a right to feel good always, no matter what I do or say.” I feel that crazy itch in the Spankin’ Hand again. For the first time in my life, I think I actually want to spank a child because I utterly disagree with her philosophy of life.
Which is insane. She is two.
What happened to the goddess of calm??
I stare at her. She glowers back. Lifting her out of her chair, I say, drily, “Uh-HUH.” The second her little feet hit the carpet, she streaks to the bathroom, shrieking from me the entire way. She cannot get away fast enough from Tee Tee, that terrible woman who makes her feel so SO BAD.
I follow at a leisurely pace. At the bathroom door, I can see her, reaching up to the counter, grabbing a sanitary wipe from its box, smushing her swollen face deep into it.
I roll my eyes. Between gulping sobs, she chides me, waving the wipe at me:
“THIS is a special wipe, Tee Tee!! A SPECIAL WIPE!!”
I pick her up, move toward the arm chair.
“Uh-huh. Well, you may take that special wipe and stay in this chair until you are all done crying.”
I deposit her in the chair and turn away.
Pause, heavy with doom.
“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!”
GOOD. LORD.
Later on, after this harrowing day of babysitting was finally over, I went home to My Beloved, threw myself in his lap and yowled:
“I NEED YOU TO HOL’ ME AND GIMME A SPECIAL WIPE AND MAKE ME FEEL GOOOOOD!!!”
He offered me his sleeve. Sensible man.
what lacrosse is
Lacrosse is a giant game of keep away with big sticks and little butterfly nets and a tiny frustrating ball.
That’s what it is, pippa.
Boys in long shorts and long jerseys and helmets and footwear run around a field and, get this, BEHIND the goal if they want, wielding, uh — sticks? batons? 2 x 4s? — with little nets on the end. They catch an alleged ball in these little nets, although I can’t claim to have actually seen this alleged ball from my personal vantage point with my personal myopic eyes.
So let’s change my definition:
Lacrosse is a giant game of keep away with big sticks and little butterfly nets and a tiny frustrating ball played by people who can actually see the tiny frustrating ball.
That’s all I know.
But, thank God, my dad was there to explain things to me. He doesn’t know what lacrosse is either, but he’s a dad. He explains things. That’s his job. Even now, with his full-grown daughter, he does his duty. And without fail, whether or not he actually knows things, he does his duty and explains them. He’s a dad.
“See, Tray, the guys on offense have the longer sticks.”
He placed the merest emphasis on the word longer. Knowing my dad, it was purely innocent. But I started to laugh because I’m an immature cow.
Dad kept to his duty.
“And the defenders have shorter sticks.”
Again, the slightest emphasis. I frowned.
“Ohhh. Hm. Bummer, Dad.”
His eyes widened at me in shock. Uh-oh. I was pretty sure I was seconds away from being sent to the car for the rest of the game. Then, phew, I remembered I’m a big ol’ grownup with my very own car. Still, the threat looms eternal, doesn’t it?
A split second later, though, Dad was giggling and saying “Tracey!” in a mock scolding voice.
Timeout averted.
Dad was eating a hamburger when we got there. No. Not merely eating. For 5 bucks, he got a hamburger, some chips, and a soda, and he was chowing down like a starving man at a dumpster. I tell you true: When he’s not at home, that man eats utter trash. Only if Mom can’t see, though. That’s his rebellion. Man doesn’t smoke, doesn’t drink, doesn’t swear, doesn’t hang at the tittywiggles. He simply eats trash whenever he’s away from home. One night a few years back, MB went to my parents’ house to talk to Dad about something and had to wait for Dad, who was on a last-minute errand. When Dad pulled up in the driveway and got out of the car, the wrappers from two Haagen Dazs bars dangled from the door opening then drifted slowly to the ground. He had a smudge of chocolate in the corner of his mouth. He’d only run this quick errand — away from mom, you see — but had made sure that part of the errand involved stuffing two Haagen Dazs bars into his mouth during the mere moments he was out of the house. Why oh why do you take these insane risks, Dad?? And caught red-handed with wrappers and chocolate?? Tsk, tsk, tsk.
MB motioned to his mouth.
“Dad, you’ve got a little chocolate there.”
He didn’t want Dad to be busted. Nope. He stood by him, stalwart in male solidarity.
“Oh! Oh! Thanks!” Dad said, wiping his mouth and stuffing the telltale wrappers into his jogging suit pockets.
You see, venue and furtiveness are the keys to my dad’s junk eating. He sticks to one unspoken principle about these indulgences: location, location, location. A car, a camping trip, a lacrosse game. It is always away from home, and because he was away from home last night, he was allowed to commence his gleeful junk eating. He doesn’t hide it from his kids, just Mom, and we’re all willing enablers in this because he’s skinny and that’s irksome. Drat him, anyway. Eat another burger, Dad.
So, yeah, MB and I caught Dad redhanded last night with his half-eaten greasy ballpark burger.
“Wow, Dad. That’s quite a burger,” I said.
“Yep!” He just smiled and munched away, no guilt, happy as a little boy.
Location, location, location.
We found some seats. The game started. Dad further explained things he knew nothing of in his role as dad and I questioned his knowledge of things I knew nothing of in my role as kid. And in this way, we communicated. About what, I don’t know, but that’s not the point.
Turns out, Elder Nephew was some kind of a defender, tall and menacing, whacking dudes with his stick because they were whacking him with their sticks first. That’s how it seemed me anyway, as his loving aunt. I mean, what’s a kid to do? Beat or be beaten. And that’s the game. An organized gang beating with sticks interrupted by the occasional flinging of a tiny frustrating ball at someone’s head.
During half-time, Elder Nephew sauntered over to the giant Gatorade cooler, all casual and no biggie about the gang beatings, and took a giant swig. He was facing us, but we were way up in the giant concrete slab of the bleachers. We began to wave at him like loons. On purpose. Wave, wave, peace sign, we’re cool, wave, wave, wave. And that kid would just not give it up. Pretended not to see us. Would NOT acknowledge us. Well, really, we knew he wouldn’t because, duh, it was hideous what we were doing, very uncool, but did we stop? No. We just became more and more entranced with our hideousness.
At one point, during the lunatic waving, MB said, “I think we should all start yelling at him: ‘NEPHHHHHEW! IT’S UNCLE BELOVED!! AND TEE TEEEEEEE!!! AND POP-POPPPPPPPPPPP!!!'”
With each name, each increasingly ridiculous name, MB’s voice got higher. And higher. My dad fell apart at the insane whine MB achieved on “POP-POPPPPPPPPPPPPP!!!” The three of us were howling. Crying. Dad shrieked, “Do it. Do it! Yell at him! Do it!!” He was shaking, laughing, fortified from his dinner of grease and high fructose corn syrup. The man was clearly high.
But we didn’t do that to Elder Nephew. We couldn’t. We wanted to, oh so desperately. But we do love the kid and we want him to still love us. Or maybe, you know, start to love us at some point in the future, fingers crossed. So we just kept it to ourselves, there in the concrete of the bleachers, Dad and I repeatedly begging MB, “Do it again! Do it again!! DO IT AGAINNN!!”
You know, just three manic children, watching a bunch of boys beat each other with sticks.
Oh, Elder Nephew’s team won 7 stick beatings to a measly 5.
And that’s what lacrosse is.
more from “the happy day”
We previously discussed “The Happy Day” here, including photos of my mushroom cloud hair and the obvious — and now deeply embarrassing to me — Ren Faire overtones of the happy day.
But this photo ….. this one gets me.
This is dear dad standing poolside, watching as the professional photographer, aka Lugbutt, snaps pictures of me and my bridesmaids on the other side of the pool. (Pardon me, but it cannot be overstated: Hubba hubba, Dad.)
This photo was taken by our dear friend C who took all our black-and-white candids, which are the only photos of our wedding I actually like. Having someone who knows you and knows the players and knows what means something and what … uhm, doesn’t — hey, Lugbutt! A photo of me standing at the altar all twisted like a pretzel gazing over my shoulder at my seedy past? Guess what? Means NOTHING. I look like a tard — makes all the difference in the world in the quality and emotion of the photos. That look on dad’s face chokes me up. And the juxtaposition of dad with C’s son little baby B here sucking his thumb — IN HIS REN FAIRE CAP THAT MATCHES HIS SISTERS’ REN FAIRE CAPS, OH HELP ME BABY JESUS — is just too much. Baby B is watching the proceedings but impassively, objectively. “Yeah, whatevs. I see something is happening over here, but all my devotion and love is reserved for my yummy thumb, okay? Oh, and my bitchen’ cap.”
on the phone with dad
He: So did you have some ice cream on your anniversary?
My dad loves ice cream. He is perpetually slender. I hate him.
Me: Uh, no, Dad.
He: You should have had some ice cream.
*******
He: So I had that treadmill test.
Me: Yeah, how did that go?
He: The doctor told me he’d only had two good tests that week, a 26 year old’s and mine.
Me: Wow, Dad.
He: And I’m 73!
Me: I know!
He: I think the doctor was jealous.
Me: I’m sure he was.
*******
He: So he told me I have only a 1% chance of having a cardiac incident in the next five years.
Me: You are truly amazing.
He: Yep.
Me: Obviously, you should start smoking.
He: Heeheeheeheehee.
Me: And pigging out on ice cream.
He: Heeheeheeheehee.
Me: I mean, why not?
He: Yeah, why not?
He’s just a little kid, that man. I’m glad he’s still around so we can come full circle.
All we do when we talk now ….. is laugh.
more from the killing machine
If you could only see the abs hidden under gammie’s afghan …… I broke my hand on them once …..
But I still love him.
brothers
MB is out of town, up in the deep dark middle of nowhere, hanging out with his brother who’s over from Australia.
I’m here at home.
Because they needed man time. Brother time.
Uhm, clearly ……..
I need to stop looking at it, but I can’t. I’m sitting here crying with laughter because there is actual snow on MB’s hat and because I think that’s the stupid hat with the fishing lures on it that I always see lying around their house and because Brother’s eyes are just tiny slits of pain and because Mr. Dozen Black Belts could kill a person with one flick of his wrist, but, well, obviously, not NOW.
MB told me that the night before all of this …… he had to carry Brother home.
Hahahahahahahaha.
drunk santa
Remember Drunk Santa?
Well, there’s a postscript to this tale, relayed to me by my sister.
A couple of days after Christmas, a neighbor knocked on my sister’s door. Drunk Santa’s son, who had been on the scene at the time.
“Hey, I just wanted to thank you and your family,” he began.
“Really?”
“Yeah, about my dad. About letting him be Santa for Piper and your nieces.”
“Oh, sure. It was fun.”
“No, you see, uh ….. he’s got Alzheimer’s.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“Well, thanks, but, see, every year he dresses up as Santa. Then he thinks he IS Santa. We usually manage to keep him in the house when he’s dressed up, but he wandered outside and your sister saw him.”
“Oh, yeah. Well, I think she was just excited to have the girls see him.”
“I know. Well, I know he wasn’t really ‘all there,’ talking to the girls, but he was so happy afterwards. He was just SO happy. That entire day, he was a different man.”
The neighbor’s voice started to choke.
My sister teared up.
“Oh, I’m glad. It really was fun.”
“Well, thanks again. It meant a lot to him. You have no idea.”
When my sister told me this, I teared up too. I was touched, but I was also chastened. I had simply assumed he was drunk. I had judged him as nothing but a drunk. It staggers me, shames me, that no other alternative even occurred to me.
He was just a drunk, weaving across the street, slurring my niece’s name.
“Drunk” Santa wasn’t drunk, Trace.
The man had Alzheimer’s.
christmas snippets #1
We all gathered for Christmas up at my sisters’ house.
~ My sister and Piper set up a little “Christmas store” for The Banshee, consisting of toys, clothes, dolls, etc., things in good condition that Piper had decided she wanted to give away. And rather than just give The Banshee everything — that kid doesn’t really need more stuff — they devised this little store game for her. They set everything up at the top of the stairs, gave The Banshee some “Christmas bucks,” and told her she could buy whatever she wanted. Cute and smart, no? That way The Banshee gets stuff she really wants and will use. The Banshee, who’s 5, was quite serious about the whole process. She considered everything carefully, weighed her options. Well, no. Right off the bat, she knew she wanted an only-worn-once dress of Piper’s — that girl does NOT like dresses — but after that, with the rest of her Christmas bucks, she ruminated. She debated. This was a BIG DEAL. After all, critical decisions regarding toys she would play with for 20 minutes and then forget about forever were being made. Finally, she selected a game for herself but then found herself torn. She wanted to buy some blocks for her little sister, Baby Banshee (who’s 2), AND she wanted to buy some books for herself. She loves books, already loves to read, really wanted those books, but she didn’t have enough money left, you see. Piper had priced some of the items herself and so some of the pricing was just a bit wonky. Like, oh, used kids’ books for 5 Christmas bucks each and sets of blocks for 9 Christmas bucks. Maybe just a little pricey. So poor Banshee, with just 10 Christmas bucks left, was in a quandary. Oh, how she wanted those blocks for Baby Banshee and, oh, how she wanted those books! She said, “Well, I want those blocks for Baby Banshee so I guess I won’t get the books.”
My sister stepped in. “Well, sweetie. If you want to do that, I think we can work out a deal on the books, okay?”
“Really? Okay!”
So Baby Banshee got her blocks and Banshee got her books.
O happy day, pippa!
~ Before Christmas Eve dinner, my sister, sister-in-law, and I went for a walk. At one point, my sister-in-law proclaimed they had gotten my parents the best presents ever.
“We got them Amazon gift cards for their Kindles.”
(Which my parents are OBSESSED with.)
“You’re kidding,” my sister said. “We did too!”
“Uhm,” I said, “so did we!!”
We panicked, tried to think of some last-minute change we could make, and then I said, “You know, it is what it is. Leave it alone. They’ll probably think it’s funny.”
And they did. My parents howled. I think it was one of their favorite parts of Christmas. That all three kids, with no pre-planning or discussion, had gotten them the very same thing.
~ At one point, in the fading daylight, I walked out to retrieve something from our car. A neighbor across the street stood in his driveway with an old man, maybe his dad, dressed as Santa.
“Hi Santa!” I called.
“Hey there!”
“You look great! Hey, are you going to be out here for a minute?”
“Sure.”
“Okay, great, because I’ll bet my nieces would want to come and see you.”
“Okay. I’ll wait.”
Seems like a good idea, right? How fun, and all that. Good job, Tee Tee, I thought to myself.
I ran inside, calling to everyone within earshot, “Hey, you guys! Come see! Santa is outside! Right now! Come SEE!”
A hubbub ensued as my entire family spilled out onto the street. I stood next to my SIL who clutched a smiling, wide-eyed Baby Banshee in her arms. Piper hung back a bit, but Original Banshee just marched onward, straight towards “Santa.”
And he, in turn, staggered and weaved his way towards her.
“Santa,” you see, was drunk.
Oh, sweet baby Jesus in the manger.
Banshee waited for him on the sidewalk, eyes blazing with excitement.
Please kill me.
“Hey! Ho ho …… he-ey, li’l girl!”
Banshee’s brow furrowed a teeny bit. Baby Banshee burst into tears.
“Wha’ss your name?”
“Uhm …. Banshee.”
“Bansheesh?”
“Banshee,” she corrected his pronunciation.
“Oh, okay. Banshee.”
“Yes.”
“How old are you, Bansheesh?”
“I’m 5. And a half.”
“Wow.” Santa wobbled like a Weeble. I could feel my entire family gaping at me in horror. Fine. I just didn’t look at those judgey wieners.
But, seriously, Santa. Get a grip.
“What do you …. want fer Chrissmass, Bansheesh?”
She rattled off a list of things so quickly, I couldn’t make it out. I was hoping to hear her say, “A lame conversation with a gross drunk Santa,” but, nope, didn’t hear it.
“Okaay. Well, Sanna ….. Sanna has a pressent fer you.”
“Ohh!”
“Well, not righh now …. later on ….. later, yesh, something fer later.”
He looked like he could just melt into the sidewalk, leaving a weird red-and-white 80 proof blob. At least the gin blossom matched the costume.
“Yess ….. Sanna …. has pressentss fer later but you haf to be asleep, righh?”
He weaved and tried to smile a Santa smile. He didn’t make it. The Banshee’s brow furrowed even more. Her face fell.
“Okay.”
“Well, Murry Chrissmass ….. Bansheesh!”
The Banshee murmured in response.
“Uhmm ….. Merry Christmas, Santa.”
We all trundled back inside. I hung at the back of the pack, lost in a certain seasonal self-loathing. I glanced over my shoulder and watched as “Santa” was helped back across the street by his son.
Inside, The Banshee said, “Mommy, that wasn’t the real Santa Claus!”
Her mom tried some damage control. “Well, sweetie, he was just one of Santa’s helpers.”
“No! I don’t think he was one of Santa’s helpers either!”
“You don’t?”
“NO! He had tape on his mustache, Mommy! I saw it! He was just an old man who likes to play dress up!”
The rest of us practically sprinted out of the room to find somewhere we could laugh where The Banshee wouldn’t see us.
Yeah. Good job, Tee Tee.
~ Christmas Eve evening is our “Circle” tradition. We all sit in a circle by the tree and one of us reads Luke chapter 2 from the family Bible. Piper and The Banshee had both snuggled up to their Uncle Beloved on the sofa. I had Younger Nephew, now 15, snuggling up to me. He still does that, at his age. Er, well, sometimes, it’s his feet in your lap or your face, but I prefer to view this as a positive. After the reading, Dad passes around the 50-year-old song sheets so we can sing Christmas carols. We all know ALL the words to ALL the carols, but nevertheless, he must pass out the song sheets; it’s tradition. Even though I don’t look at it, I actually think I wouldn’t be able to sing carols in Circle if the song sheet wasn’t in my hand. It’s now a Pavlovian response: Clutching a 50-year-old song sheet = ability to sing Christmas carols on Christmas Eve. This year, The Banshee joined her voice to our chorus. She knows all the words, too, without looking or reading, and apparently believes the way to make her voice sound good is to make it all quavery with vibrato, like an old lady’s voice. So here’s this blonde-haired, 5-year-old angel, snuggled up to her older cousin who is snuggled up to her Uncle Beloved, singing O Holy Night like some 93-year-old church soloist. A LOUD 93-year-old church soloist. She shook those notes out like a dusty rug. She quaked like a San Andreas temblor. Younger Nephew, her cousin, shot a glance at me, I smiled, and that was all it took. He started shaking with laughter; I started shaking with laughter. We couldn’t look at her anymore. She was killing us — and completely oblivious to us, thank God. She was completely adorably oblivious.
Our quavering Christmas angel, our precocious granny child.
When we were done singing, The Banshee surprised us all and sang two solos: Silent Night and Angels We Have Heard on High. Thing is, she sang them perfectly, without old lady quaver, and completely on pitch. The kid can sing, genuinely sing. I know whereof I speak here. When she let herself just sing with her natural little kid voice, all by herself, with no self-imposed pressure to be “adult” like the rest of us, well, I just lost it, and not with laughter this time. Glancing around the room, I saw that I was not the only one in the room who started to cry for joy at The Banshee’s quirky in-your-face sweetness.
Later, as we held hands and prayed in our circle, the soundtrack playing in my head was The Banshee’s golden little voice crooning, “Glo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oria, in excelsis Deo!”
Gloria, indeed.
(More snippets to come …. since these are almost more saga than snippet.)
cousins
From two summers ago, when the whole family went to Zion, Utah. Piper and Original Banshee, 6 and 3 years old, walking down a dusty road. Original Banshee idolizes her older cousin.
Uhm, this one chokes me up. One of my favorite photos ever.
