Stories By Amy Cappelli
The other night, I stood at the sink setting a drinking glass on a dish towel to dry when I was overcome by a hot rush of déjà vu. I saw myself, bleary-eyed, blankly setting on a dish towel the myriad parts of gas reducing bottles we used for The Baby when she was an infant and numerous pieces of that torture device of a breast pump. The shudder of consternation at the remembrance of the round the clock ritual of washing and drying brought me out of my head. And standing there, attempting to block out and at the same time recall it—the memory became a blur. Did we really have another baby?
I had wanted so badly to speed through those dark days when she was painfully inconsolable— stuck to me so I didn’t know where my skin ended and hers began. Days ran on without the promise of a new dawn and with the same blues song playing on a loop, ‘My Baby Done Me Wrong.’ Exhaustion had spun me into a perpetual state of vertigo. Where did those days go?
The Baby recently turned 2. The Baby. Will we always call her that? When she turns 16 will we say, ‘The Baby is getting her driver’s permit today’? Princess Commando was the baby of the family for 8 years. But, she was the first girl, so ‘little girl’ stuck to her over the distinction that she was the baby. Subconsciously we must have known Princess Commando wasn’t really the last chapter.
We had a small celebration for The Baby’s birthday. She was overjoyed at the idea of having ‘cuckcakes.’ ‘How old are you now?’ I held up my two fingers to make a peace sign. The Baby imitated my gesture; but she had trouble keeping just the two fingers up and inadvertently kept flipping me the bird. Maybe she really is the wise child I illustrate in my work—knowing full well I will overlook her gesture as a ‘mistake’ because she is, after all, The Baby.
But, she isn’t a baby anymore. A baby doesn’t know how to count to 10 when climbing up the stairs for her bath where she reminds you with her chastising finger, ‘No pee pee in the tub.’ A baby doesn’t come over to you and pat you gently on the arm, asking, ‘Mommy what wrong? You okay?’ when there is a look of defeat painted across your face. A baby doesn’t behold the flaming candle on her birthday cupcake and wave her hands in front of her face screaming, just as the family is about to break into the birthday song, “No fire! Away fire!” (After all of that preaching to stay away from fire, ‘Fire bad. Fire burn,’ her idiot parents presented her with a flaming number 2 candle. She was smart to pass on fire cake).
I draw pictures of her—tracing her face with my pen, with my eye. With each line, I feel desperate to freeze her as her face swiftly changes somewhere beneath my fingertips and right before my eyes. I do not see a baby anymore. I see…a kid. I want to take my camera and snap a billion pictures to capture every expression, every little detail that makes her who she is right now. I am not the only one grappling with the opposing feelings of pride in her achievements and the despair at the inability to slow down time. Princess Commando sighs and wells up with mourning at each revelation of her little sister’s growing independence, “Mom, look at her. She’s growing up too fast.”
You must be careful what you wish for. I wished to speed through her infancy and now it is but a little smudge, a tiny fingerprint in my memory. Pleading and wishing so hard for one thing made the wish so powerful it affected all the days to come. I am going to blink and she will be in pre-k- just as I will blink and Princess Commando will be in middle school, Henry in 8th grade and First Born Son in junior year. You can’t have your flaming cuckcakes and eat them too. And yet, that little waxy number 2 candle burns fiercely in my heart—leaving an indelible mark, answering my question. Yes, she will always be The Baby.
Amy Cappelli is a writer and mother of four children (15, 12, 9 and 2). She is also an illustrator with works including For Freedom by Michele Snyder and Baby Jenna by Connie Johnson. Her blog is www.threeoclockcrazy.blogspot.com
A few weeks ago after Lucille chopped off all of her hair I took her to a professional to smooth out the rough edges. This woman did an amazing job of talking me off my ledge and making Lucille’s haircut look purposeful. On our way out the door of the salon I made an appointment with the only man who works there. The woman who had so skillfully trimmed Lucille’s hair only worked on kids, it seems, so I scheduled a haircut for myself with Mario.
No one likes to feels different, no one likes to feel alone and I’d been worried that my little three-year-old was feeling both. I wanted to do something that said you’re not on your own on this one. I wanted her to know I had her back. So I decided to cut my hair off too.
Mamalode is a magazine and website for moms. Mothers form connections through our print and online publications and events. Launched in Missoula, Montana in 2009.
