Tuesday, June 21, 2005

"I don't want to be FOUR!!!!!!"

Dear Lady Mistress Executio....

No, that's not right.

Dear Mistress Vomitia of Pukonia....

Um, not quite what we're looking for.

To Her Royal Highness the Principessa of....

Good lord, I don't have time for full titles.

Dear Alita on the occasion of your much contested fourth birthday,

Tough morning, huh? Wait until the day you turn 31. It's a much bigger letdown and no one is going to throw you a Princess Party either.

I feel your pain about leaving your teacher behind. I can tell you right now that she will always remember you and that, as much as she didn't like to see you cry, you probably totally made her day by being so attached to her that you were willing to be three years old forever.

Me, personally? I'd be fine if you stayed three forever. Also, I'd be terribly disappointed.

Last month we were walking along 5th Avenue and we started playing this game, just having a conversation but with only 2 words, every variation of Yes or No we wanted to use. I knew what I was thinking while we did it. I mean, how could I not? I've spent around $150,000 for acting training so that I can easily sustain a scene like that and still convey my location, emotion, past circumstances and intention to the audience. You're FOUR, how did you do it? Oh, right, I spent all that money to teach myself how to be four again and I'm just a tiny bit envious of you. It was fun and, for my part, I could have played all day.

I have to say it's a far cry from 4 years ago. We spent a hot summer hanging out on SE Street and getting to know each other. One night you just would not stop crying. Wailing and agonizing and freaking out. You were like a month old, who knew you had accumulated so much anger? I walked up and down the street with you until it got late enough that I wondered if the people on the block (the ones not hanging out on the stoop with your mom) were wishing that I would stop perambulating the siren under their windows so I took you inside. Good god, it was like there were 8 of you. The gnashing of teeth echoed, bouncing off each wall and being delivered back to us tweaked just enough to induce hysteria. I took you back outside. Screw the neighbors. A nice young man stopped me near Hanson street and clued me in on what stopped his son's crying. Apparently one is supposed to take a vibrator (he may have said personal electronic massager but I knew what he meant) and turn it on under the banshee's mattress and the motion soothes the horror child to sleep. As odd as I still think that conversation was I wasn't the least afraid of him and thought his idea was perfectly sane at the time. I didn't do it, though. I didn't feel your mom and I had the sort of relationship where we could exchange that sort of information yet.

And you know what? Eventually I left. You were still crying. And I left your mom to deal with it. I should have apologized for that. (Sorry mom!) You should apologize too when you get a chance, OK?

These days I'm a little luckier, usually I can coax you out of a bad mood or out from in front of a mountain of dolls and toys to come play with me. Even if it's raining. Not snow, though, no one gets you out in the snow.

Thanks for the laugh with the tattoo raspberry, I needed that. Thanks for holding my hand really tight when we walk down the street. Thanks for saying, "Tomorrow? At Brunch? I'm going to sit on Kizzy's lap!"

I know you don't want to hear it right now but congratulations on turning four. I'm pretty sure you're going to learn to like it.

I love you, no matter whose class you're in.


No comments:

Post a Comment