Heathen...uh, heaven help me

I don’t know about anyone else but I had very specific ideas of what my kids would be like, or at least what the first one would be like. It would be a girl, like me (sure enough.) That girl would have dark brown curly hair like I did (Curls? Yes. Brown hair? Not so much.) This is not to say that I am so great, just familiar. And, she would be very into musicals, especially “Annie.”

When I was a kid I was obsessed with “Annie.” I would play the soundtracks to both the Broadway version and the 1982 movie version over and over again on my little portable record player, when I wasn’t mooning over Shaun Cassidy, that is. I knew all of the songs by heart, and due to a trip to see the traveling version as part of Barbara Marland’s birthday party, I felt pretty secure in much of the choreography as well.

Anyway, this obsession shaped a pretty big chunk of my childhood and spawned my later obsession with being adopted (which was a stroke of good luck when I found out at 10 that I was adopted in real life) and orphans (which was a little ironic when I became one for the second time at 17.)

I always imagined that I would have a little girl that would wear deep ridges into those same albums and Emily is as obsessed as I ever was, although videotapes have taken the place of the records. She has memorized both the 1982 version and a newer made-for-TV one by Disney. Here’s where the irony comes in again: when I say memorized, I mean that she has seen them each enough to “know” the songs, although her idea of “knowing” the songs and my idea of “knowing” the songs couldn’t be further apart.

When I tell you that I know the songs to this particular musical, I don’t mean that I know them in the way that people know every song on the radio. I don’t mean that I can sing the chorus really loudly and them hum and mumble though the rest of the song. I know these songs like they were written on my soul. I have listened to them hundreds, if not thousands, of times.

I have imagined what it would be like to be a depression-era orphan plucked from heartbreaking poverty into unimaginable riches. I have pinned my childhood dreams on playing Annie on Broadway only to wake up at eight years old and realize I am 5’10” and could never play a ten-year-old orphan. Never mind that I could hardly sing and couldn’t dance or act.

This is not the way that Emily knows these songs. Emily knows these songs at the top of her lungs, but just one line of any given song, and she does not actually KNOW even that lines worth of words.

For instance, there is a song called, “Easy Street.” It is the song sung by “the bad guys,” Ms. Hannigan, the mean orphanage manager, her good-for-nothing, criminal brother, Rooster, and Rooster’s dim-witted girlfriend, Lily. The song is about how they can’t catch the big break they imagine the wealthy have all gotten and it is during this song that they hatch their plan to swindle Daddy Warbucks out of $50,000.

In Emily’s version, it is “Heathen Street.” I must admit that I like the idea of a heathen street and I briefly had fun trying to rewrite the lyrics in my head to fit her title, but as funny as I found the idea initially, no song is cute after 1,000 times and with the lyrics butchered.

This has all left me searching deep within myself, wondering… worrying really, about what other things I may have imagined and wished for when I was pregnant with her. What other fantasies of mine have been twisted into her in order to drive me insane? The late seventies and early eighties were a pop culture torture goldmine.

Shaun Cassidy anyone?

Scenes from a garage sale

Imagine someone you love and trust goes through your things while you’re sleeping. This person paws your things looking at them not with the sentimental look of adoration you would, but with a cold, critical eye. This person sees only the scuffmarks and tears, not the memories of the past and the potential for the future.

Once through your things, this loved one goes back, gathers up what he/she wants and takes it away. Sure you don’t realize immediately what things are gone—your grandfather’s pocket watch, that DVD that you love but haven’t watched in months, that sweater that makes you look like you have breasts or that you are 10 lbs. thinner, or both—you don’t realize they are gone but you loved those things, and you will be heartbroken when their absence registers.

Now, still oblivious to the betrayal, you join your loved one for what you think will just be a fun day out at a friend’s house, but you are wrong. Instead, you are forced to watch strangers buy your things and carry them out of your sight. You are powerless to stop any of it. You feel as though parts of you are being ripped away.

That’s what Friday must have been like for Emily, except that the things I took to sell included unused baby toys, torn pop-up tents, and rarely watched Blue’s Clues videos that might cause ADHD.

Nonetheless, her gut wrenching screams of, “That’s my stuff! They cannot have it! THAT’S! NOT! FOR! SALE!” echoed throughout Belmond this weekend as though I were selling off her body parts. Despite my best efforts to quiet her she pled with me, breathless and panicked, “Mommy… get that back. Please, I need it. I play with it all the time. Please, please, please Mommy.” She tried to force herself from my arms to chase down the shoppers like they were her family going in another line at Auschwitz, hands reaching out, tears streaming.

It is only because Emily treats every event lately like she is being carried off to a death camp that I can watch her act like this and continue doing whatever thing it is that is causing her heartbreak. So, I held her with one hand and sold her things with the other, and soon she was over it enough to eat donuts and play with the other kids.

I did, however, notice last night when we were with my in-laws and they asked her about the sale that she had this weird sort of expression on her face that reminded me of the one that my brother used to get after he’d been removed from a situation, spanked for misbehaving, and retuned. It was this look like something awful had happened to her and she had accepted it but that it was maybe even worse that the adults in her life could sit around talking about her assault like it was okay, that really bothered her. Or maybe she was just tired and I’m not as over it as I thought I was.

Had I really done this awful thing to her? I would feel an awful betrayal if Eric sold my things. Does it seem weird to anyone that we do things to our kids that we wouldn’t want done to us? Would absolutely everything I do as a parent seem this strange if I over thought it this much?

This was my first garage sale experience as a mom (having one that is) and my child was the only one out of all the families there that had a problem with it, so this time I’ll chalk it up to tired child and even-more-tired-mom. Because, despite Emily’s best efforts I sold her things, and mine too, and the sale was a success.

The "terrible" twos were a walk in the park

People cry about the evils of the so-called “terrible twos” in every parenting book ever written, and perhaps for some people there is such a thing. In our house this was not the case.

Instead, we sailed through the “twos” with nary a whimper. Sure there were times when Emily was grumpy or a bit stubborn, but it was nothing we couldn’t handle, nothing that gave us any cause for alarm. We thought ourselves not just safe, but above such things. It seemed then that we had somehow brought this upon ourselves with our superior parenting and fine luck.

We were wrong.

The “twos” departed and in their absence the “Oh my god, what have we done to deserve this? threes” have descended. Last October, clearly as one sign of the coming apocalypse, Emily embraced her new role as the world’s most obnoxious child. She doesn’t just push the envelope or test her boundaries; she makes it clear that she looks at me with nothing but pure teenage distain.

“I am NOT taking a nap! Never! Ever! Never!”

While I am not a believer in karma or in reincarnation I am beginning to run out of reasonable answers to the question of what I have done to deserve this. I read to her. I tell her that I love her 100 times a day. I try to look at the world through her eyes. I am left with this: I think that I may have been Mussolini. Why else would I get a child that acts this way at three? I was fine with the idea that somewhere down the road, in twelve years or so, we might have a fight or two or even that Emily would get that “too cool for this family” thing that I absolutely hate on teenagers, but this is far worse, and far earlier than I imagined.

One of the best parts of this behavior is that it often comes out of nowhere. We will be sitting, reading together quietly, and suddenly, as if another person has entered her body, she will turn to me like Linda Blair and say something like, “Claudia needs to die! I am NOT going to share my toys with her!” Well sure, that makes sense.

While it may be hard to believe while reading this, we do not just sit her in front of cable TV for days at a time. As far as I know, the only exposure to death that she has even had is the discussions about my parents. And yet, there she is throwing proclamations of bloodshed around like a cast member of the Sopranos.

When I try to explain to her that we do NOT want Claudia to die, that we would be heartbroken if that happened she will look at me with a face that makes me think for a minute that maybe she gets it, maybe she realizes what an awful thing it was that she said and say, “I’ll keep her toys to remember her by.”

So, as the days start ticking down to her fourth birthday I am filled with both hope and dread. Surely is has to get better, right? Or are there more, as of yet unimagined, ways that she could torture me?

Oh god, maybe I was Hitler.