Queenie Beenie

I am dedicating this post to my eldest daughter, Beenie, by six minutes or something like that (I was very high on an epidural when she popped out so who knows…). All truth be told, she is a bit of a tyrant, which comes with the package of genius and sweet treat. The girl is particular. She is briny, likes dill pickles and olives, threw her veggie burger on the floor today during lunch because her food was a.) not served on a proper plate b.) served with a quartered pickle instead of a huge one. Just before I left their bedroom for naptime, I put her in her crib and she threw herself over the top of it, which she also did, for the first time, yesterday, with me catching her before her face hit the ground. I told her that I was going to leave the room before she could do it again, and that I would not be there to catch her. I asked her if she wanted to hurt herself and she replied “YES” with a gap toothed smile on her face. I counted to five and ran out of the room. If she really wants to fly out of her tall crib and land on her face, I cannot stop her. So I’d rather not be there to witness the horror. That was about five minutes ago, so my heart is still pounding, waiting for her to do it. I did it when I was little. And she will. And Mimi will, too. It’s the nature of things. But today, I’d much rather her stay in her crib and take a nap, so I can attempt to do the small freelance job I think I don’t have enough time to do. I’ll be giving it one more day before I contact the nice lady who gave me the job, telling her that I might not be the right person for the job. Or maybe I’ll plough through it, since I otherwise have absolutely no income whatsoever. It would be good to have a little, very little, something at least to spend on soy lattes and art supplies. That way I won’t be dipping into the feeding the family fund.

Okay. My heart stopped pounding– not completely, tho, don’t worry! That young lady is a piece of work. Excellent work, mind you. For as long as I was spying on those two girls living in my gut two and a half years ago, they were both always spinning around. Wild. Beenie was the one who moved around the most in utero — her knees and elbows were the ones that made my shirt move. Mimi just shoved her little feet or elbows or whatever weapons she chose to use on me at the time, into my ribcage.

I haven’t heard any loud thumps, which indicates she considered her poor, old mother once again (thank you, Beenie), and will wait perhaps another day before she sails from the confines of her crib onto the brutal floor. Ouch. It will hurt. All of us. But it must be done. It is only a matter of time…