Posted: June 5th, 2009 | Author: kristen | Filed under: Car Rides, Daddio, Doctors, Little Rhody, Miss Kate, Paigey Waigey Wiggle Pop, Walking | 1 Comment »
I know my dad adores his grandchildren, but this is getting kinda weird.
When Paige was a baby—unlike her peaches and cream complected sister—she was plagued with all manner of lizard-like dermal issues. She had a savage case of eczema—or at least what seemed an inhumane amount to us. Not to mention baby acne that’d make you turn your head and blush. And she had some hardcore cradle cap that defied all homespun, holistic, and fancy-brand cosmetic cures.
For her first several months of life I endured an inner battle, compelled to take copious pictures of my sweet new baby, then I’d focus on her smiley scaliness through the camera lens, and want to just sit down and cry.
At the time I was dragging Paige from doctor to skin specialist to tell-me-how-much-longer psychic, my father was navigating the same circuit for himself, on the East Coast. It seemed that right about when Paige was stricken, Dad also got himself a case of the itchies.
And so, caring phone calls to inquire about Paige’s progress inevitably involved Dad recounting the misery of his own sudden eczema onslaught. “The itching! As a grown man I can barely take it,” he’d lament. “Oh that poor baby. Give her some extra big hugs from Gramp.”
We’d talk about what Dad’s doctors prescribed, comparing it to Paige’s piles of ungents and salves. What soap and laundry detergent he’d changed over to. If the heat really did make it worse or not.
If only Paige was talking, the two of them could’ve formed a real nice support group. Though I don’t know that I’d be too keen on the satin Back Scratcher Bad Asses jackets they might’ve made. (Or maybe they’d just wear t-shirts from The Itchy and Scratchy Show?)I mean, there’s a limit to the extent you want to broadcast some of these ailments, no matter how desperately you desire sympathy.
Yesterday, on a drive somewhere or other, I decided to gear Kate up for the fact that Grandpa was going to be in the hospital for part of our summer pilgrimage to Rhode Island. I explained, in my clearest 3-year-old concepts, that Grandpa’s hip was worn out, and the the doctors would be opening him up, taking it out, and giving him a new one made of metal—what her bike is made out of.
“Do you think,” she asked with knitted brows, “he maybe has a cat in there?”
My father promised to bring up this possibility with his doctors.
This morning, as I was on the phone talking my way into an orthopedic appointment for Paige that’d hopefully precede her prom—explaining how with the not-walking-yet thing she needs her hip x-rayed ASAP—it hit me. I mean, now the two of them with the hip issues? This is getting kind of ridiculous.
When Paige starts having to take Lipitor to keep her cholesterol in check, I might just have to do some finger pointing. Then again, it could be my dad who finds himself fighting off ear infections, swollen aching gums—or worse—a nasty bout of diaper rash.
The thing is, I’m not sure which of them is experiencing sympathetic symptoms on behalf of the other. I mean, at age 80, I’d assume that Dad was the chicken, and wee Paigey’s the egg. But it’s just not that clear who’s starting it; who of the two of them is spearheading these afflictions around which they’ve apparently sworn solidarity.
I’m hopeful that once they sort out these hip problems, the two of them’ll find other things they have in common to bond over. The first of which—if I could put in a request—I’d like to be a long spate of excellent health.
Posted: June 4th, 2009 | Author: kristen | Filed under: Car Rides, Friends and Strangers, Kate's Friends, Miss Kate | 4 Comments »
I collect friends named Kristen. (With the ‘e-n’ not ‘i-n’ spelling, of course.)
I know it sounds narcissistic, and I’m sure in part it’s just a generational thing. I mean, I don’t have any friends named Agnes or Gertrude.
Actually, check that. None named Gertrude.
Anyway, it’s not like I set out to have nine or so Kristen friends. It’s just that I met these women in the course of life, as one does, and for some reason I’ve tended to develop freakily fast close bonds with most of them. And so now, at any party or ho-down I throw, I make the inevitable, goofy “Kristen, meet Kristen” introduction. Though, blessedly, at this point most of my Kristens know each other.
One of my Kristens who I utterly adore (despite her abandoning me to move to the Land of Potatoes), started going by the name Ruby at a small agency we worked at, on accounta I was there first. I swear I didn’t threaten her in the parking lot to make her do this! In fact, for a long time I’d no idea she didn’t rock the name Ruby before we worked together. I mean, how can you not love someone who’s willing to do that? (And could she have picked a cuter nickname? No!)
But, that’s how we Kristens are. We look out for each other. It’s just like that with us.
Anyway, another Kristen friend who goes by the street name Ingrid (for reasons unrelated to me), also moved—at least for now—to New York. (Sniff!) Anyway, she and I have taken a staggered approach to our baby birthing. Unintentionally, of course. So whenever one of us is freshly preg-o, the other is inevitably tending to a newborn, and so on.
When Ingrid visited here last, her son Ocean was around 18 months or so. Kate, a year older. That age spread is prime for Kate’s social tyranny. She loves nothing more than a younger person whom she can tilt her head towards while explaining, “These are cherries, Ocean. CHEH-reeeeeez. They are yummy to eat!” Kate goes into what I call her Hostess Mode and introduces everyday objects in our house to younger children. As if the kid had been living under a rock until having the good fortune to encounter Kate and her more mature, hard-won life wisdom.
Sad as it is to admit, Kate and Ocean have only met each other a handful of times. But in that terrifying way that three-year-olds remember things (”We know another Jane too, Mama! Remember that lady who was buying broccoli at Safeway that time?”), Kate has fond memories of her last long-ago afternoon with Ocean.
In the car this weekend, prompted by nothing I could discern, Kate started talking about Ocean and asking when he’s going to visit next. She became fixated on the idea of seeing him, and from most of the drive from Burlingame to Oakland—miles and worlds apart—she outlined her plans for their next encounter.
So I started to jot them down on my phone. You know, capturing her social agenda like a good Mommy Secretary.
“Ocean can sleep with Dottie.”
“He can sleep in my bed if he takes a plane to see me.”
“If we want to color in the night, I’ll get you up and ask you to get Crayons and paper.”
“If he wants me to read to him in the night, I’ll turn on the light and he’ll pick out a book.”
“I’ll make paper airplanes and helicopters for him. And boats!”
“Do we have a car seat for him?”
“He’ll sit next to me at dinnertime.”
“We can introduce him to Jonah.”
“I have a little knife. It’s wooden and he can put his hand under my hand and I can help him cut.”
“I’ll teach him how to do dance class and puzzles.”
“If he doesn’t like shell macaroni—if he doesn’t want one of my big spoons he can use one of Paige’s spoons.”
“He needs to help me make my [mud] soup. I’ll show him what roses I need and he can just break them and sprinkle them in the bowl.”
[Noticing I was typing what she was saying] “That’s my list. That’s what I want to do with him.”
[A final thought] “I wanna give him a card for him coming over here.”
When my mother-in-law visits, at the end of the day if the kids seem tired, she’ll often say, “Well, we had a big day today.” Prompting Mark to remark that every day is a big day for me.
What can I say? I like to keep busy. Plus, I don’t believe in relaxing.
Clearly, Miss Kate takes after her Mama.
Alas, Ingrid has a newborn (and no, I’m not pregnant), so I’m not sure when she’ll be in Cali next. But when we do see her and her clan, I hope for his sake that Ocean’s well rested. Kate’s got a hell of an agenda planned for them.
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