I can’t hear you. I’ve got my headphones on and these kids (no – not mine) are shouting in my ears. Los Campesinos. Love them. My Year in Lists:
You said “send me stationary to make me horny”
So I always write you letters in multicolours
Decorating envelopes for foreplay
Damn extended metaphors, I get carried away
On the back of a natural disaster, fixed with parcel tape and with kids sticking plasters
Nothing says ‘I miss you’ quite like the poetry carved in your door with a Stanley knife…
I’m (hopefully) damaging my hearing in an attempt to drown out my beautiful monsters. Small, quite beauteous monsters; Monsters none the less. I smile and nod as I see them bickering just outside the door. I can tell by the way the boy is gritting his teeth and the girl’s rapidly moving mouth is approximately three-eighths of an inch from the back of his head that they’re fighting. I can tell by his clenched fists that she’s doing a superb job of annoying him. She has a special talent for it. But I can not hear. I smile again and wave. Close the door.
It’s been a long day.
My four year old pixie has been visiting a friend. She frequently takes vacations from us. She never looks back as we stand at the door and call out good-byes. No blown kisses returned. The middle girl, she’s always hoping to turn up somewhere she can be special. When she finds a place like that it’s hard to get her back. My husband makes me call.
“Hi Peanut. You having fun?”
“Yes. I gotta go.”
“Hold on. What’d you guys do today?”
“Stuff. Bye.”
“Hey! I’m talking to you!”
“What?”
“I love you.”
“Okay”
“I said I love you. Are you still my peanut?”
“Uh-huh. I gotta go.”
(Good grief. I gave birth to this person. I think.)
“I LOVE YOU. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
“I love you, too. I want to stay longer.”
“How long?”
“Six days. Or maybe I could just live here.”
That didn’t quite work out for her. I got a call this morning asking me to pick her up at the emergency room. Her friend swallowed a magnetic ball. We hope it was just one anyway. Otherwise… well, they’re magnetic. The house was oddly quiet without the pixie-peanut. Her siblings were excited to see her. Even the boy said life seems less without her. Wow. I didn’t even make him say it. So we got to the emergency room – I know you’re thinking ER, but don’t. This is a small town. Two rooms. Waiting Room, Room with Curtain Dividers to Simulate Privacy. And both these rooms are about the size of my bedroom. Not big, yet somehow they’ve managed to make it echo. This came in handy when we got there and were greeted by loud little munchkins – five of them, all of whom know my name. The word cacophony comes to mind. We could hear Magnetic Girl in the next room. She didn’t want the party to leave her. It’s obvious the woman at the desk had had enough of the party though. We herded the five, along with the three I brought, outside into the street. I turned to the pixie again. “I missed you” I told her. She responded with “When can I go to Lea’s again?”
There is something about the pixie you should know. She is a changeling. I believe this. Switched at the moment of birth (I was distracted and looked away – most likely a fairy pinched my arm for just that purpose and not, as my husband says, a nurse with a needle). She shrieked. Continuously. This is no exaggeration. I didn’t think she would ever stop. It went on for months. It was clear she did not belong to us. She wanted to be held, but not by any of us. She was hungry, but nothing she got agreed with her. She has cried every single day of her life. Lest you be confused, I’m not talking about soft, sad tears here. Hot, screeching, jagged cries of accusation turned up full volume. Complete with feedback. And yet, we keep her. We’ve become attached to her despite it all. She’s clever. Exceptionally so. (changelings always are) And funny. She also speaks with a Boston accent for some unknown reason, which is vastly amusing to the rest of us. We are not from Boston. She dresses to suit her own pixie-like tastes, in party dresses made for twirling with mismatched shoes. Her face is always filthy. One day last week she was unrecognizable. I asked her sisters what she’d been eating. “Dirt” came the reply. Her human siblings registered no surprise. Neither did I. Eating dirt is amateur stuff. The pixie is capable of much, much more.
She gave a brief demonstration as we piled into the car. Bit her brother on the back and laughed. She has a sweet laugh. He pulled her hair, making her shriek. As she took her turn climbing into the back seat she snatched a stuffed bunny from the baby, which set off a wail. “Money! Want my money!” I turned on the radio.
The radio does not work. Nothing but static. I turned the radio up, hoping to drown them out but the static wasn’t loud enough. I sang.
I had to pull over and have a serious discussion with the little monsters twice on the way home. The third time I pulled over it was into a parking lot, hoping to buy some hard drugs. This is the country though and I could only scrape two dollars together anyway. I bought a Coke and a Ring Pop. Outside I found the husband of a friend parked next to me. I glanced at the car, estimated the distance. Too late. He called my name. I plastered an insincere smile on my face and attempted small talk. Most of it came out in squeaks of “uh-huh”. My face hurt.
I do love my children (even the fairy imposter) but, as I said, it’s been a long day. The trip to the hospital was only the opening act. Later attractions included the pixie digging holes in the yard with a spoon (guess I know now where all the spoons have gone), a terribly expensive piece of handmade pottery accidentally smashed to bits (note: next time in Ireland just buy a fridge magnet), an angry call from my husband saying he’d found the fifty-some invitations I swore I’d mailed yesterday in the glove compartment (oops), and… Well. You get the idea. Long day here in the Mother Hood. I should probably be listening to something relaxing like Dvorak’s Serenade for Strings. Maybe tomorrow. Right now I’m trying to push all thought from my head. Just me and Los Campesinos jumping around shouting and singing. Which means I have to stop typing. And lock the door.
On your request, I compile a list
Of my top five resolutions for this year (one!)
I declined ’cause I decided that I (two!) did not believe in the New Year anymore (three!)
And I must confess that at times like these hopefulness is tantamount to hopelessness (four!)
And I accept that it’s time for a change but not in places like this with people like these (five! five! five! five! five!)
My year in lists…
