Can’t give em away….
Little Rosie Toes,
How I love you and your pox scabbed face. But you. are driving me. insane. Because our lives have turned upside down a bit with illness after illness and because deadlines for daddy’s albums are upon us, we are a bit out of sorts in our attitudes and demeanor. I am tired and ill and nobody takes care of a mama when a mama is sick. The only person who does a decent job of it is my mama who is now too old and stuck in a blizzard in NY. And daddy, though relatively good at it most of the time, is not doing his job because he has been locked in the recording studio now for 1 week straight until 4am every night and seems to find a way to stay in bed until 9am every morning. And because you haven’t seen much of him this week and miss his unwavering attention and constant playing and because I haven’t seen him either, and he’s not rubbing my feet and kissing my big bootie, you and I both have been royal beeeeee-yatches. You think it’s totally funny, in a rather scary way, to be an utter naughty little fairy. I can see your black webbed wings, ripped up tights and purple mohawk and I can hear that naughty fairy cackle. You don’t fool me, little Fae. Not one bit. I am taking to growling and chugging cough syrup because I don’t know what else to do when you slam doors, throw books, and pinch the dog and your sister. Hard. But because you are so cute, and can now scooter one-legged in an arabesque and have taken on saying the phrases, “let’s just chill on the couch” and “no worries” and you call everyone (even the Target check-out man) “Daaaarlink” with a nice southern drawl, and tell me I have goddess princess eyes, I guess I will keep you. But please, oh please, let this phase past. Terror. You have been a holy terror.
And you. You Miss. Pearly-Girl.
You want nothing more than to learn the ropes like your super-star Mia. As much as you are your own person, she puts you in awe and I can see you quietly taking notes on how to be the kind of three-year old that makes mamas face sag and hear gray. I am going to run away. Run far, far away. You are lucky you speak with that accent that none of can place…a bit African, a bit Warton era New York, a bit homegirl, I can’t help but want to gobble you up. I am reminded of this: your will, your leadership, your lioness strength will undoubtedly serve you later in life.
I love you both. I’d never trade you in for quiet, shy, complacent children ever. Not ever. But maybe you can pretend for just one day. Maybe?
