Dee Dee's Pinata

        We have a column cut from the satirical page of the Asheville weekly attached to our fridge.  “How do you know if you’re ready to have a baby?” a teenager named Lucy writes in to “Kid Care With Arnold.” Arnold, a fictional Vietnam vet, replies, “Dear Lucy, There’s a very simple test: Stay awake for four weeks straight chained to the sofa in your living room listening to a looped recording of someone screaming. Periodically explode a pinata filled with pee and poop in every room of your house. Then burn a pile of money while your mother-in-law yells at you for not doing it correctly. If you think that sounds like fun, then you’re ready for a baby.”
This column cracks me up every time I read it. Thankfully, it seems we have pretty much made it through the first trial, despite Sylvia’s persistent weepiness. The money part goes without saying, even though I have a supportive mother-in-law, who even if she thought I “ wasn't doing it correctly” would never say so to my face. It is the pinata line that never fails to give me the giggles, so aptly does it satire the reality of my experience with motherhood. Take this week for example...
On Monday, as usual, I put Dee Dee down for “quiet time” in the Pack-n-Play in our room. It was quiet for a little while, and I presumed Dee Dee was reading as she normally does in lieu of actually napping.  Then there were some rustlings, some bangs, sounds I chose to ignore, calculating that I’d rather enjoy a few more minutes, if not of quiet, at least of solitude, even if it meant having to clean up later whatever she’d gotten into. Soon, however, a loud crash brought me in, and this is what I saw.
Dee Dee, naked from the waist down,was on her knees on top of my dresser. Her bare legs were streaked with poop. The dresser sits in a corner, and the walls that met there were smeared in feces, like two Jackson Pollock canvases in monochrome. The offending turd had evidently cascaded down the dresser, of which, unfortunately, some drawers were slightly ajar, and landed squarely on a plastic easel that was in a pile of things to be donated to Goodwill. My dresser, a housewarming gift from my parents when I bought my first house in Asheville, has broad, artsy groves between the boards. These grooves were now spackled with a compound whose tint very closely matched the stain of the wood, although the fragrance and the consistency were all wrong.  Even my jewelry box, which I had painted and decorated with beads in another life--one in which I had time to contemplate, and even execute, such crafts--was now covered in shit.
Of course I did not, at first, take all of these details in. I simply gasped as the stench. Dee Dee peered down at me from her perch atop the dresser, looking a bit like Diego on his scaffold.
  “I pooped,” she said matter-of-factly.
I picked Dee Dee up by the underarms and carried her to the bathtub for two rounds of cleansing. While she played in the tub afterwards, I tackled the dresser clean-up with toothpicks, spray cleaner, and paper towels. I emptied the contents of the jewelry box into a plastic bag and then threw the box away, telling myself I was sort of tired of it anyway. By the time I finished the clean-up, quiet time was over, and I went to let Sylvia out of her room. When I opened the door, she was standing over a puddle in the middle of the floor, pant-less and diaper-less.
“I peed,” she said.

“That’s it,” I told Don later, “I’m done. Our room is now a kid-free zone.” The girls haven’t napped in weeks, months even.  Let them not nap in their own room, together. Let Dee Dee destroy her own stuff, smear poop on her own walls. She had done her last quiet time in my room.

***

That, at least, was my plan. The next day, I avoided quiet time altogether in favor of an afternoon trip to the park. On Wednesday, Sylvia was so exhausted and tearful, I was sure she would nap if given the chance. I didn't want her sister in there disturbing her, so instead I set Dee Dee up on the futon downstairs.
For almost an hour, I heard nothing. Could it be? Maybe, just maybe, I allowed myself to hope, she’d been so cozy on the futon she’d fallen asleep. Then I heard footsteps on the stairs. I saw her head appear first, then her torso, then... oh no! Her bottom half was completely bare.
“Oh no, Dee Dee!” I said. “What did you do?”
“I pooped!”
Into the bath she went. While she was soaking, I went downstairs, dreading what I'd find-- with good reason. There was poop on the futon cover, poop on the comforter, a poop-filled diaper on the floor. I thought that was the worst of it until I saw the brown streak on the rocking horse. Maybe it was mud but I didn't bother to check; I just scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed.

On Thursday, I went on a walk in the morning with a good friend, with whom I shared my recent travails with the poop and pee pinata exploding in my house. I don’t know what to do, I say. I know that the obvious answer is “Potty train!” After all, “does not tolerate wet or soiled diapers” is a textbook example off the  “Your toddler is ready for potty training when...” checklist. But honestly, I just don’t feel I can bite that off right now. With four kids to take care of most days of the week, I’m pretty maxed out. When we’re out and about, it is a relief that the girls are still in diapers; it’s one less thing I have to worry about. And even when we’re not, it doesn't feel much easier. Dee Dee wants you to read War and Peace every time she sits down on the potty. Meanwhile, the baby needs feeding and the dishwasher emptying and the lunch made.... For better or for worse, I've been holding off on true potty training until summer, when Don will be around and there’ll be one more pair of hands.
So what to do? Abandon quiet time? Admonish Dee Dee with threats?“There will be no Dora unless you keep your pants on!”
“Well,” my friend shared, half-joking. “The mother  of one of my daughter’s classmates says she used to have to duct tape her daughter’s diaper.”
Aha! That afternoon before quiet time I found a roll of shiny red duct tape in the closet. “Ok, Dee Dee,” I said. “Let’s change your diaper!”
“No! I don’t want...” she began. And then it came to me-- the best idea ever.
“Look, Dee Dee!” I cut her off.  “You can look like a super hero!”
Because she could! As I attached the glossy red tape to the front of her diaper, it did look rather superhero-like.
“I want to see!” Clayton said, coming in. He’s obsessed with anything Halloween, make-shift superhero costumes included.
He looked at Dee Dee lying on the changing table with the red tape on her diaper and nodded seriously.
“She does, right?” I confirmed
“Yeah.”
That did it. If her brother thinks she looks like a superhero, she’s sold.
“Super Dee Dee!” she yelled as she grabbed my hands and jumped to the floor.

I wish it ended there. That would be such a good ending! But alas. That afternoon, I put the girls down in their room together. Again the promising quiet, fueling my ridiculous hopes that a nap might actually be happening.
Then, “Aaaahhhh! Dee Dee pulled my hair!”
Inside, the room is a complete shambles, the floor covered with barrettes  blocks, and books. It also reeks. I glance sharply at Dee Dee, but although her pants are missing, her diaper is intact! Hallelujah!
A few minutes later I notice the poop on the rocking chair, just one slender swipe, like someone had wiped a chocolate-covered finger on a napkin.  Oh no! Dee Dee has immediately headed downstairs to find Clayton, and yep, that’s her poop. Still, I am triumphant. It was just a finger swipe! Just one little bit of poop on a chair, and only her hands to wash. What a victory.
It is only that evening as Sylvia sits on my lap reading books that I realize what an idiot I am. I absolutely failed to put two and two together. Dee Dee had poop on her hands; Sylvia was crying because Dee Dee pulled her hair. Is it any wonder the top of Sylvia’s head smells so awful?

On Friday, I put Dee Dee downstairs again, with the duct tape and a serious talking-to about not taking off her pants. And, low and behold, when I go downstairs to get her she is reading a book on the futon, poopy diaper intact, pants on.
She is very proud of herself.  “I left my diaper on! I didn't get poop everywhere! I pooped but I didn't take off my diaper. I left my diaper on...”  (Honestly, she never stops talking.)
I am proud of her, too, but mostly I’m just relieved that today I don’t have to drag anything out to the driveway to hose off. Maybe we’re getting somewhere, after all.

* * * 

I wish that were the end. That would be a good ending, too-- uplifting, optimistic. But, again, alas.
Today I started this post while the girls were doing quiet time. The quiet ended with the predictable screaming, but when I went to open the door, it would not open. I leaned in and forced it ajar. Inside, Dee Dee had barricaded the door with Sylvia’s crib. Beyond the crib, it was as if the room had exploded. The diaper basket, the dirty clothes hamper, the bookshelf-- all had been emptied onto the floor. There was a stuffed turtle in the garbage can and little Indian bracelets all over the changing table. And standing on the other side of the crib was Dee Dee, butt naked, covered in poop.

The Highs, The Lows

         I'm typing this without the "n" key on my keyboard. That's the kind of afternoon I had yesterday. Dee Dee and I were in the side yard getting the eggs, Sylvia was finishing up an episode of Dora on the laptop, Clayton was, well, Clayton was somewhere.
Somewhere along the line, I must have made an impression with my impersonations of animals talking, because now it's "What is Howard saying?" "What is that fly trapped in the window saying?" "What is my cereal saying?" "What is my poop saying?" Ad infinitum.
Right now it's "What are the chickens saying?"
At first, I play along. "They're saying, 'Thanks for the food, Dee Dee."
"And what am I saying?"
"You're saying, 'You're welcome.' Come on, Dee Dee, let's get the eggs."
"What are the eggs saying? What are the chickens saying? What is this egg saying? What is the basket saying? What am I saying?"
"They're saying, 'Hurry up, Dee Dee!" I am exasperated. This has long since ceased to be cute. Finally,  one, two, three, five gregarious eggs are all in her basket.
"Hurry, Dee Dee!"  I say.  I want to get back inside before another episode of Dora begins on the laptop.
Inside, I am met by Clayton's muffled shouts. "Mom!! I'm all done pooping!" he yells from the bathroom. (Oh, that's where he was.)
I close out Netflix and hurry in to help wipe Clayton's bottom. He had a bout of number 3 earlier today and he could use the expert help.
Not to put to fine a point on it, but the toilet needs some attention, too. I'm getting out the toilet brush while Clayton washes his hands. "What are my germs saying?"
Ugh. There's no Comet under the bathroom sink, so I head for the kitchen. Sylvia is still sitting in front of the laptop, her tiny fingers curled over the keys, as if she's got some important writing to do. It's cute, until I notice the missing "n."
"Oh no!" I exclaim. Don just replaced the keyboard a month ago, after another letter mysteriously detached itself. This time, the mechanism still seems to be in place, at least. Maybe it will snap right back on, just like in all the infuriating You Tube videos we watched about replacing missing keys the last time around.
I'm fumbling with the n as the kids head out onto the back porch. I glance up to see the screen from the sliding door has been totally detached from the frame and is flapping freely in the wind. At this point, I could care less about the screen; what worries me is how angry Don will be when he comes home. I glance at the clock. 4:23. He could be home any minute. The screen will be the first thing he sees, and he'll swear and scold the kids, and I don't like to start the evening out like that. I put the n on the counter and grab the roller tool to reattach the screen.
The kids head out to the fish pond while I struggle with the door. Clayton is looking at the tadpoles when the girls start throwing the pebbles that Don sprinkles decoratively around the edges to cover the pond lining. To be honest, I don't care much about that either. What young child doesn't want to toss rocks into water? It's irresistible. But Clayton knows his dad's rules; he is outraged.
"Mom!! They're throwing rocks! They're not supposed to do that!!"
Dee Dee, for once, listens when I holler at them to stop. Sylvia just gives me a look and reaches for another handful.
"Put that down or you're going to your room," I threaten from the porch.  She pauses, looks at me again, and then hurls them into the pond.
I want to give her a time-out right then about as much as I want to rip out a hang nail. But out I go to the pond. Sylvia sees me coming and reaches for another handful of pebbles as fast as she can. If she's going to get in trouble, she might as well get her money's worth. She is also laughing gleefully, which makes me madder than I care to admit. I scoop her up and take her to her crib. She laughs all the way there, and by the time I drop her in her crib, I am boiling.
Meanwhile, Dee Dee and Clayton head up to the tree fort.
"Dee Dee! Don't! You can't! Dee Dee! Don't climb the ladder! You will fall! And you will die!"
All of this is said, I am sure, to get my attention, but I am still working on the screen. Dee Dee can manage the ladder.
A few minutes later hysterical screams are coming from the tree fort. I imagine someone impaled on a nail or dangling by one leg from the ladder. I sprint up through the woods.
Dee Dee is sitting, smug as can be, on one of the make-shift stools Don made out of two by fours. Tears are streaming down her older brother's face.
"Dee Dee won't share!" he howls.
There is another, bigger, unoccupied stool in the tree fort.
"Why don't you just sit there?" I suggest.
"Daddy made this one for him and this one for me and Dee Dee had a turn, but she won't share!" he sobs. "And I tried my best but she pulled my ear!"
I'm not sure how to react. Is this true, endearing, four-year-old despair or is my son already a very good actor, knowing just how to turn on the chin-quivering and the tears? Most likely it is a little bit of both. Even if it is an act, he seems to have convinced at least himself by his performance-- the tears are real. (And I wouldn't put ear pulling past Dee Dee, either.)
Dee Dee, meanwhile, is still perched impassively on top of the stool, holding on with both chubby hands. My heart goes out to him. She must be an infuriating little sister.
I glance at my watch. It's 4:39. Surely Don will be home any minutes, and the energy will shift as it always does.
Clayton is red-faced and sweating. It's over eighty degrees, and he's still picking out his winter clothes when he gets dressed in the morning. This is one conflict there seems no point in resolving, so I don't even try.
"You look hot, Clayton," I say, changing the subject. "Let's go change your clothes, get you a drink, and read a book until your dad comes home."
Dee Dee hears "book," and hops down off the stool.  Clayton whimpers all the way back to the house, where we meet Sylvia on the porch steps. I don't even have it in me to wonder how she got out of her room, never mind scold her.
"We're going to read a book, Sylvia. Come on."
It's mere seconds now, I tell myself. Don will come home, and we'll be peacefully reading on the couch and everything will be fine.
Dee Dee and Clayton are bickering over which book to read when the phone rings. It's Don. He hasn't left work yet.
A year ago, that would have put me over the edge. Doesn't he know, doesn't he care, why can't he, etc., etc., etc. I try to be more understanding these days. I know how hard it can be to get out the door at the end of the day. But today? I allow myself a moment of self-pity before I head back to the couch.  I was (more or less) offered a teaching job last week, but I turned it down.
"Momma? What's the robot saying? What's the horse saying? What's the cookie saying? Clayton's squishing me!"
  Maybe I could still change my mind.

* * * 

Don's had a rough week at work, too.  With the warm weather and no air conditioning, his classroom is sweltering. There were faculty meetings, coaches' meetings, a staff breakfast that meant a late night trip to the grocery store for orange juice and yogurt in the name of faculty "morale," and inane bureaucratic decisions to move final exams up by a week, when he's already racing to get through the curriculum.
We sit down to dinner. The kids are talking a blue streak. "Nobody talk!" he demands. "I want a few moments of silence!" In the past I would have smoldered. (i.e., "What's your problem? You haven't seen the half, the quarter, the eighth, of it!") I try to be more empathetic now. We're both doing the best we can.
At work, Don deals with bureaucratic crap; I deal with the other kind-- all over the toilet. He's got meetings that squander his time and good humor; I've got bickering, whining, naughty children that squander mine. He's got all the perks of a professional life for which I sometimes yearn; I've got all the perks of being with our kids full-time.
Because today, really, was pretty great. I went to the gym in the morning, then took the kids to Lake Louise. We watched the ducks, had a picnic,"winged on the wings" (to use Sylvia's expression), read books in the shade. The trees were blooming, the sun was warm, the lake sparkled, and I realized I was making the ducks talk without even being asked.
Afterwards, we treated ourselves to chocolate ice-cream on Weaverville's quaint main street, and when we got home, we all read books piled together on Clayton's bed. At quiet time, Clayton brought Dee Dee a stuffed pig to "make her happy" and later he let Sylvia play with his teddybear, whom Elmo immediately began to mother and put to bed. And when I stubbed my toe on the coffee table, Dee Dee hugged me and sang me "Twinkle Twinkle" so I wouldn't cry.
So what if Dee Dee pulled out all my dental floss and dumped the matches into the bathtub when I thought she was sleeping? So what if the n key is still missing and sometimes Sylvia cries so much I just want to scream at her, "Stop crying!" (Which doesn't help-- I've tried). Those moments are just the faculty meetings and irritating emails of full-time motherhood. They are the lows that make the good times feel like flying.

Hair Cut

       A week ago, we cut Dee Dee's hair. Oh, how I hated to. After all, hadn't we endured months of growing out her bangs, hanging on to the hope that one day she would tolerate a barrette, a ponytail, a headband? Her hair was beautiful, dark blonde and thick, with lovely golden highlights and the sweetest curls down her back. It reminded me of my hair as a girl, hair I took such pride in even when the other kids teased me that I looked like Laura Ingles Wilder. 

Dee Dee's hair was beautiful, all right. When it was clean and brushed, that is, and therein lay the rub. Dee Dee hated to have her hair brushed, hated to have it washed, hated to have it pulled back in a barette or, God forbid, a ponytail. If I even tried to push it behind her ears while she ate, she would shake her head violently and push it back into her face. "I WANT my hair in my face!" For better or for worse, she had claimed it as her domain, and any encroachment was fought tooth and nail. No matter that she could barely see when she ran or played, or that she was forever peering out at life through a tangle of crusty locks. She'd brush it back from her face with an impish grin, looking just like a mischievous little elf parting a curtain into this world. 

 Forever in her face, it was inevitably caked in food, snot, and tears. "Crunchy hair," we called it, and tried to peel away the strands plastered to her cheeks with God knows what. Every night, Don would wash it, but after her bath she would run screaming around the house while I chased her with the brush and the spray bottle of detangler. "No!" she howled. "Don't brush my hair!" When I caught her, she would collapse in a writhing heap of tears and sobs, and I would quickly rake the brush through her hair, exasperated by her dramatics but still hating to torture her so.

Once we had decided that there was nothing for it, the hair had to go, I couldn't look at her without wanting to break out the electric clippers right there and then. "Do you want to cut your hair?" we asked again and again, and the answer was always a predictable "No!" Finally we enlisted the help of Clayton, to inspire her with his own hair cut, and when that proved insufficient, Dora. Dee Dee sat at the kitchen table with her sister, watching Dora the Explorer on the laptop, as Don tried out the buzzer on her hair. She hunched her shoulders and jerked her head away.  "No hair cut! No!"

I had better luck with the scissors; she barely flinched as her long locks began to fall away. "Look at Dee Dee!" Sylvia kept saying, tearing her eyes away from Dora to stare at her sister's new look. "Dee Dee got a hair cut! It's mine turn!" 

 I was, I admit, quite proud of the cut, since I have absolutely no experience as a barber, but at first my stomach fell every time I looked at her. What had we done? "I don't like it," I told Don sadly. 

But, really, that wasn't the point. Because Dee Dee did like it. Immediately. We could tell from the way she smiled and made faces at herself in the mirror. From the way she plowed into her food with her customary zeal, without that darn curtain of hair getting in her way. From the way she ran and played and jumped without having to stop to push the crunchy strands out of her face. And that night, after bath, there was not one single tear. 

The first few mornings, it was a shock to go into the girls' room and see her standing there. Now, of course, she just looks like Dee Dee. In fact, she looks even more like Dee Dee than she did before. This is who she is. She is wild, mischievous, curious, funny. She cares about making people laugh, running fast, and books--- not ponytails or barrettes or pretty hair. 

A few weeks before Dee Dee's hair cut, there was an article in The New Yorker about a transgender teen. One of the hardest parts, the author wrote, was for the parents, who had to learn to let go of everything they'd expected for their child, and just let her be who he was. A haircut is nothing like that, I know, and yet the article gave me the kick in the pants I needed to finally let go of what I thought Dee Dee should look like and break out the damn scissors already.

As parents, of course we have hopes and dreams for our children. I want all of my kids to love books and nature, to do well in school and treat others with kindness. But, ultimately, they are who they are, each with their own unique light inside. This was just hair, after all, but the lesson was there for me, nonetheless. I'm their mom, and it's my job to let 'em shine, let 'em shine, let 'em shine. 

Before

After