Wednesday, April 10, 2013

There Is Not a Witch In This House!

Chebbles (my daughter via Shaken Mama) validates
 my Teddy love, circa 2009.
I must have been about 5 when I learned I was going to die.

Not then, thank God! I mean, eventually.

Along the road to that revelation, I experienced vague "memories" of having been a giraffe before I became me, and somehow having lived with my "grandmother in Florida." (My grandparents died before I was born and I've never been to Florida.)

Turns out these types of "memories" are not uncommon in kids. Past lives? Well, that's fodder for another post. I often have been called an old soul, after all. Though my personality much better fits the mature soul profile ... but I digress.

Ever the journalist (you know how we enjoy breaking bad news), I apparently felt the need to broadcast this new death-knowledge to my younger neighbor, Ginger. "That's right, Ginger, WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE! AGH!" You can imagine how that went over. (When I learned about sex, I also broke that news to my younger playmate across the street. She was satisfyingly horrified. I don't know why anyone let their children play with me.)

Anyway, one day after I reached this age of reason, I was in the kitchen with my mom, and she asked why I was moping around.

"Well, I'm going to die," I said as she prepared one of her myriad culinary feats.

"Why are you worried about that?" she asked.

"What about Teddy?" I said, referring to the stuffed bear my brother had given me one Christmas and who immediately became my constant companion. "What will become of him? I'll miss him if he isn't put in the coffin, but I don't want to have him buried with me when he's still alive."

"That's morbid. Stop worrying. You're not going to die for a long, long time," she said. (Note how she didn't dispute the fact that Teddy was flesh and bones.)

Sound advice.

Reminds me of how she quelled my fear one night  that a shadowy figure in the corner of my bedroom was a witch. I hijacked Mom on her on her way back from the bathroom to her bedroom to share my suspicion.

"There definitely is not a witch in the corner of your bedroom," she said.

I was relieved. "But how can you be so sure?"

"Because if there was a witch in your room, don't you think she would have gotten you by now?"

I kind of wish for her counsel now, as I wait in coming days to see if medicine can manage my rescue Peke's newly diagnosed severe heart disease.

I would very much like it if she would say, "That's morbid. Stop worrying. If there was a witch in your house, don't you think she would have gotten her by now?"
Step off, witch! Sadie Marie is mine!

Tuesday, April 02, 2013

This Is Your Mother's Nail Polish

What are you looking at?
Growing up, my best friend Lori and I had virtually matching sets of toys: Fisher Price Little People and accoutrements, Baby Crissy, Quick Curl Barbie (without Mod Hair Ken), etc. (Looking back, I'm struck by the veritable childhood riches.) I feel like plucking the Barbies from my garage right now and heading over to my sister's house toute de suite. If only it weren't too late for me to go outside and play, the streetlights having come on and all ...

In fact, after I rented this house, I had to wonder how much of my decision stemmed from it reminding me of my first Little People residence. Then I drew some rugs on the floor and plates on the table, and I was set!  OK, I'm joking, but wouldn't that be funny?

Anyway, my mom was faced with a dilemma: When she called me home for dinner, how was I supposed to figure out which toys were mine, and which were Lori's?

Quite simply, she dabbed a spot of nail polish on the bottom of my toys.

Fast forward a couple or three decades.

Following my dad's death in 2005, I found myself with a few pieces of my mom's china, but not enough for a table setting. So I took to the vast promise that is the Interwebs and tracked down as many pieces of the Silver Clover design from Japan (is anyone else tickled by china coming from Japan?) as I could find.

I thank my OCD (obsessive-compulsive disorder) for this. Also in the name of OCD, after it all arrived, I felt the need to set Mom's "real" china apart from its step-family.

What do you think I did?

And that's how polish made an authentic Polish Easter dinner for my brother, sister and me.
Mom's china on the magic table